Sheet music:

 

Song lyrics:

Near to Banbridge Town, in the County Down
One morning in July,
Down a bóreen green came a sweet colleen,
And she smiled as she passed me by;
Oh!, she looked so neat from her two white feet
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair,
Sure the coaxing elf, I’d to shake myself
To make sure I was standing there.

Oh, from Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay,
And from Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I’ve seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down.

As she onward sped I shook my head
And I gazed with a feeling quare,
And I said, says I, to a passer-by,
‘Who’s the maid with the nut-brown hair?’
Oh, he smiled at me, and with pride says be,
‘That’s the gem of Ireland’s crown,
She’s young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann,
She’s the Star of the County Down.’

Oh, from Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay,
And from Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I’ve seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down.

She’d a soft brown eye and a look so sly,
And a smile like the rose in June,
And you hung on each note from her lily-white throat,
As she lilted an Irish tune.
At the pattern dance you were held in a trance,
As she tripped through a reel or a jig;
And when her eyes she’d roll, she’d coax, upon my soul,
A spud from a hungry pig.

Oh, from Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay,
And from Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I’ve seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down.

I’ve travelled a bit, but never was hit
Since my roving career began;
But fair and square I surrendered there
To the charms of young Rose McCann.
With a heart to let and no tenant yet
Did I meet with in shawl or gown,
But in she went and I asked no rent
From the Star of the County Down.

Oh, from Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay,
And from Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I’ve seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down.

At the cross roads fair I’ll be surely there
And I’ll dress in my Sunday clothes,
And I’ll try sheep’s eyes, and deludhering lies
On the heart of the nut-brown Rose.
No pipe I’ll smoke, no horse I’ll yoke,
Though my plough with rust turns brown,
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside
Sits the Star of the County Down.