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The Merry Man / Irish Drinking Song / I Am a Gay Fellow

[ Roud 7060 ; Ballad Index CrPS101 ; Bodleian Roud 7060 ; trad.]

Thomas Crofton Croker: The Popular Songs of Ireland

The Life of a Jolly Topper is a broadside printed by Charles Randal in Stirling, Scotland in c.1800, now in the National Library of Scotland.

The Merry Man is a song from Thomas Crofton Croker’s 1839 book The Popular Songs of Ireland.

George Sansome sang I Am a Gay Fellow in 2026 on his and Sophie Crawford’s CD Queer Folk Songs.

Lyrics

The Life of a Jolly Topper

I am a young fellow that likes to be mellow,
To drink and be merry is all my delight,
I often set tipsy with excellent whisky,
With jovial companions from morn to night.

I never take pleasure in hoarding of treasure,
The sight of a miser I cannot endure,
Who always is gripping, both sharping and biting
And laying out schemes how to plunder the poor.

A niggardly miser who doats on his treasure,
The fruit of his labour he seldom enjoys;
His heirs they are waiting to spend it in pleasure,
and scarce will afford him a shirt when he dies.

His belly’s complaining for want of sustenance,
His bones are decriped with hunger and cold,
Instead of good liquor, he’s still drinking water,
and takes no delight in a flourishing bawl.

To quarrel for riches is but a mere folly,
Therefore I ne’er will seek worldly store,
If I get a sip for to cure melancholy,
Let me have that, and sure no more.

With nothing to vex me, n» care to perplex me,
O may I have this, contented am I,
Tho’ others may blame me, they never can shame me,
I think it no treason to drink when I‘m dry.

I pray set me down at the head of the table,
With whisky the full of a large water stand,
Where each clever fellow may drink all he’s able
And toast all his friends with a bumper in hand.

My beard shall be shaven, my hair neat with powder,
Whilst I sit in state in my holiday clothes,
With a brave singing topper plac’d at my left shoulder,
A pipe to smock out, and a jug at my nose.

Dull Drawer be quicker, & bring us more liquor,
Sweet piper come squeeze up your leather and play.
And when you are dry, then apply to the pitcher,
We’ll drink and carouse till we see break of day.

We count them but asses who wait upon glasses,
Such muddling and fuddling is all but a sham,
It is only a wasting of time that is precious,
Command me to that would fugle the cann.

When my death bell is toll’d (for life‘s but a fashion),
No crocodile tear shall be shed at my wake,
Nor counterfeit friends shall walk in procession,
I only desire no moan they shall make.

I could not endure to lie under such beagles,
Relating a parcel of nonsense ill rhym’d,
And three merry pipers to tune it up briskly,
But yet all the time there’s no moan to be made.

Early in the morning when day it is dawning,
My funeral procession may then walk along,
Four strapping fellows may bear me on shoulders,
And all the way sipping and singing along.

While the young to sing, the vallies shall ring,
Which will rattle a chorus both gallant & brave,
Then lay me down flat on the broad of my back,
So sway goes the merry man down to his grave.

The Merry Man in The Popular Songs of Ireland

I am a young fellow
Who loves to be mellow,
To drink and be merry is all my delight;
I often get frisky,
By tippling good whisky,
With jovial companions from morning to night.
I never took pleasure
In hoarding up treasure;
The sight of a miser I cannot endure,
Who always is griping,
And sharping, and biting,
And laying out schemes for to plunder the poor.
Ri fal-da-riddle lah, &c.

Of the beggarly miser
I am a despiser;
The fruit of his labour he never enjoys;
His heirs for his money,
Impatient of honey,
Are waiting and hate him, while with it he toys.
His frame is complaining,
For want of sustaining;
His limbs are decrepit, from hunger and cold;
Instead of good liquor
To make his pulse quicker,
He’s gloating and doating on that idol called gold.
Ri fal-da-riddle lah, &c.

As for me, while I’m able,
At the head of a table,
Set me down of good whisky a full water stand,
Where each clever toper
May drink like the pope, or
May toast to his friends with a bumper in hand.
By the side of that jorum,
Like a Justice of Quorum,
I’ll preside full of state in my holyday clothes;
In winter or summer,
With a rollocking rummer,
A pipe for to smoke, and a jug at my nose.
Ri fal, &c.

"Come, drawer, this spirit
Of yours has some merit.
Sweet piper, come squeeze up your leather and play;
And hand him the pitcher,
It makes music richer,"—
Thus we’ll drink and carouse to the dawning of day.
I hold them but asses
Who wait to fill glasses,
Such muddling and fuddling’s unworthy of man;
It only is wasting
The time that is hasting,—
Commend me to those that will fugle the can.
Ri fal, &c.

When stopped in my toddy
By death seizing my body,
No crocodile tears shall be shed at my wake;
While there I am lying
No counterfeit crying,
No moans, I desire, shall be made for my sake.
I ve no taste for squalling,
Or old women s bawling,
Who string nonsense together and call it a keen;
Who only are selling
Their yelping and yelling
For some one, perhaps, that they never have seen.

But of whisky a cruiskeen
To fill up each loose skin,
Let all have to toast to my journey up hill;
And three jolly pipers
To tune up for the swipers,
While each boy honestly swallows his fill.
Then a blackthorn cudgel
For each, should they grudge ill,
To anoint one another, and none to control.
Nor let them be down-hearted
For him that s departed,
But end their disputes in a full flowing bowl.

The next morning early,
When daylight ’tis fairly,
My trunk shall be nailed quite close to my back;
Four stout lads so civil
Will bear it up level,
Whilst I ride on their shoulders instead of a sack.
Now let them all sing,
And the valleys will ring,
Raising up a fine chorus, both gallant and brave;
Then lay me down flat,
Like a sieve-woman’s hat,
And away goes the merry man into his grave.

George Sansome sings I Am a Gay Fellow

I am a gay fellow who loves to get mellow
And drinking and fuddling is all my delight
I often get frisky with an excellent whisky
And jovial companions from morning ‘til night
I never take pleasure in hoarding up treasure
The thoughts of a miser I cannot endure
There’s always a griping, a snarling and sniping
And laying out schemes to impoverish the poor.

Chorus (after each verse):
Come waiter be quicker and bring us more liquor,
Come piper, come blow up your leather and play.
When we are dry we’ll apply to the pitcher,
We’ll drink and carouse ‘til the break of the day.

When death shall come forth for my body to take,
Let no crocodile tears at my funeral be shed
Give each jolly fellow what will make them mellow
To drink in remembrance of them that are dead.
My face shall be shaved, my hair neatly powdered
While I sit in state in my holiday clothes
A good swimming bumper placed in the left corner
A pipe in one hand and a jug at my nose.

Give unto each fellow a good sturdy cudgel
To set to the other and without control
When they have properly pummelled each other
They’ll nourish their hearts with a full flowing bowl
Quite early next morning as day is advancing
My trunk shall be nailed quite close to my back
And four gay companions shall bear me up even
I on their shoulders like fruits in a sack.

O the birds they shall sing and the valleys shall ring
While the boys in the chorus so gallant behave,
Lay me down flat on the broad of my back
Crying “There goes a hearty cock down to the grave!”
They’re nothing but asses all men that chase lasses
Since drinking and fuddling is only a sham
While we are losing the time that is precious
Show me a boy that will empty the can.

Acknowledgements

Thank you very much to George Sansome for sharing his lyrics!