As I went down to Dublin city,
At the hour of twelve at night,
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady,
Washing her feet by candle-light.
First she washed them, then she dried them
Over a fire of amber coal,
In all my life I ne’er did see
A maid so sweet about the soul.
Whack fol the toora, loora laddi-o
Whack fol the toora loora lay
As I went back through Dublin city
At the hour of half-past eight
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady
Brushing her hair outside the gate.
First she brushed it, then she combed it,
On her hand was a silver comb.
In all my life I ne’er did see
A maid so fair since I did roam.
As I came back through Dublin city
As the sun began to set
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady
Catching a moth in a golden net.
When she saw me then she fled me
Lifting her petticoat over her knee
In all my life I ne’er did see
A maid so shy as the Spanish Lady.
I’ve wandered north and I’ve wandered south
By Stoneybatter and Patrick’s Close
Up and around by the Gloucester Diamond
And back by Napper Tandy’s house.
Old age has laid her hand on me
Cold as a fire of ashy coals
But where o where is the Spanish Lady,
Neat and sweet about the soul?
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