I was born a collie sheepdog with a white band around my neck.
And for nine days my eyes were closed and I couldn’t see a speck
I had four lovely sisters, me being the only boy.
And for six weeks we played around, our mother’s pride and joy.
Till a gentleman from Mullaghbawn, a fancy to me took,
He held me in his arms, then my masters hand he shook.
He took me to his motor car and started for the road,
And in less than twenty minutes I was in my new abode.
Well the first thing my family did was to look for me a name
And they called me this and they called me that, and it sounded all the same.
Till my master he came round the house and this to me he said,
Consider yourself now a dog, henceforth your name is Ned.
My one great distinction was I had a bunty tail,
And I wagged it for my master as we walked o’er hill and dale.
I herded sheep and cattle and sometimes the nanny goat
And my master often threatened that he’d cut my bleedin’ throat
As the months went by and I grew up and learned to do my chore,
I barked at postmen, soldiers and likewise the man next door.
The people loved to see me work they said it was a treat
And before we got into the car, I always washed me feet.
But sometimes dogs grow lonesome and I wished I had a pal,
So I met a great big labrador and she said her name was Sal
She said that she was lonesome too that she had a pedigree
I said ‘that ain’t no problem Sal, you just leave that to me.’
When her master overheard the news, that with her I slept,
We didn’t use protection, and across the fence he leapt.
Saying ‘You bunty tailed black so-and-so from beyant in Conway Park
I’ll stop your gallivanting around me cottage after dark.’
With his gun up top his shoulder, a careful aim he took
And the noise that came out of it the valley round it shook.
It left me hide a burning as the bullet tore me head
And the woman says, ‘He shot that dog that belongs to Michael Ned’
When my master he did hear the shots and it happened just by luck
He went up to the gunman and he said ‘You Newry Knuck’
Then he let him have the one two three up in the ould phisogue
Saying ‘That’s the medicine I dish out to a man who would shoot me dog’
And he picked me up & carried me to me kennel & here i lie,
And I hear the neighbours asking ‘will poor Ned live or die?’
‘I’m getting great attention, now my body’s full of lead
And for the first time in my life I get my breakfast here in bed’
My master is forlorn, as he sits and strokes my head,
And he searches round my body for those little balls of lead.
He’s using awful language, as he sits there on the log
And these are some of the things he says about the man that shot the dog.
‘May scabs like crabs grow up in flabs round everything he feels,
And green snothers flow down to his toe and hacks come on his heels.
May his woman pout and his hair fall out, and his farts smell like a hog
And the divil’s luck take that Newry knuck, the man that shot the dog.
May piles grow ’round his big backside, like strawberries on their stalk
And everytime that he lifts his gun that his stomach it may baulk
And as he goes a hunting over heather, hill and bog
May the diorrhoea skite with all it’s might from the man that shot the dog’
And it’s to conclude and finish now, I’m on all fours once more
And I feel that urge coming over me that did one time before,
And I’ll sneak out some dark evening in mist or the thick fog,
And leave another half a dozen pups with the man that shot the dog.
Written by Michael Quinn.
As of yet this remains unrecorded by Andy. He has sung it at his shows many times. It is sung unaccompanied with a melody line quite similar to “The Lakes of Ponchartrain” / “Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore”.