I'm tired of the walkin' and goin' the road
'Tis myself does be ever to carry the load,
There's never a trouble or sorrow to be
But falls right and heavy just down upon me.
An' there is himself goin' gay as a lark
From Sunday to Sunday, from daylight to dark,
You'd imagine to hear him a-goin' along
He'd the gold of the world, wid his laugh and his song
Himself and his fiddle.

We go to Kiltimagh, and we get there
Round himself will be gathered the fun of the fair
Sure the famers wid cattle just leave them to stray
Whenever the fiddle is started to play.
The childer come runnin', and every old clown
Calls out: Paddy the Gamut is come to the town'
Sure 'tis little he earns but a shiling or two,
But for me, whatever would old Paddy do?
Himself and his fiddle.

But sometimes at home an' the wind blowin' wild,
'Tis lonesome without e'er a chick or a child,
When I'm workin' around redding up the old house,
I keep steppin' aisy, as soft as a mouse.
For Paddy sits down on the rush-bottom chair
An' makes tunes on his fiddle so ghostly and quare,
You'd think 'twas the fairies were playin' a tune
To entice a sthray mortal to go to their dun.

He next makes as if 'twas the wind in the trees
You could hear every stir comin' in on the breeze,
He could make you hear dashin' of waves on the shore,
God save us, the thunder and storm's awful roar.
An' now he'll play soft like a baby asleep,
An' a soft Summer wind goin' over the deep
If himself wasn't there, sure 'tis lonesome I'd be,
Though the heaviest load do be fallin' on me
Through himself and his fiddle.