 The harvest fair should be surely there and I'll now dress in me Sunday clothes, wear me hot dog right and me shoes shone bright for a smile from the nut-brown rose. No hearse I'll yoke, no pipe I'll smoke, till the rest of me plough turn brown, and a smiling bride by my own farsight is the star of the County Down. From Bantry Bay down to Derrickay, from Galway to Dublin Town, no maid I sing like the fair Pauline that I met in the County Down.