Last Saturday morning, the horns they did blow,
To the green hills round Tassagh the huntsmen did go
To meet the bold sportsmen from around Keady town,
For none loved the sport better than the boys from Maydown.
And when we arrived they were all standing there,
So we took to the green fields in search of the hare.
We had not gone far when someone gave a cheer:
Over high hills and valleys this 'puss' she did steer.
With our dogs all abreast and that big mountain hare,
And the sweet sounding music, it rang through the air.
Straight for the Black Bank for to try them once more
And it was her last sight round the Hills of Granemore.
And as they trailed on to where the 'puss', she did lie
She sprang to her feet for to bid them goodbye.
Their music, it ceased and her cry we could hear,
Saying, "Cursed be the ones brought you Maydown dogs here."
"Last night as I lay content in the glen,
It was little I thought about dogs or of men.
But when going home at the clear break of day
I could hear the long notes that young Toner did play.
"And it being so early I stopped for a while,
It was little I thought they were going to meet Coyle.
If I had known that I'd have lain near the town
Or tried to get clear of those dogs from Maydown.
"And now I am dying, the sport is all done,
No more through the green fields round Keady I'll run,
Or feed in the glen on the cold winter's night,
Nor go home to my den when it's breaking daylight.
"My curse on MacMahon for bringing Coyle here,
He's been at his old capers for many's the year.
From Friday to Sunday, he'll never give o'er,
With a pack of strange dogs round the Hills of Granemore."
