G G/B Em C Oh my name is Michael Conway, in old Ireland I was bornG G/B C D Near the lake of Cloonacolly on a bright summer's mornG C G/B C But soon came cruel winter to break and scatter my poor homeG C G D G Soon came the harsh day that forced me to roam.G G/B Em C Well I reached old Philadelphia in the brave land of the freeG G/B C D Where I met with my two brothers; There was Pat, James, and meG C G/B C We were destined for the rich land fate owes us all from birthG C G D G We were bound for Butte, Montana, the richest hill on earthC C G G Where their pockets they bulge heavy, when copper's running highC C Em D Where the hill rewards her brave sons, it's fortune or dieG G/B Em C Where they tread on silver dollars on the crowded barroom floorG C G D G While they strip the granite mountain of her precious copper ore.G G/B Em Well we leaped down off that steam train, and stepped out into the yellowC mistG G/B C D With holes still in our hearts then, and a fight in either fistG C G/B C No kind face to lead us up to where the dirty smelter spatG C G D G And it's there I took to hard labor as a Butte mining ratC C G G Where we trade the hours of daylight for the smell of copper ore,C C Em D Where it's whiskey and the cow pats to cure our copper soresG G/B Em C Where half the town it labors while the other half it sleepsG C G D G Where upon the granite mountain, a mile high and deep. [Break--same as chorus]G G/B Em C Oh they know me down in Dogtown, bare knuckle I would goG G/B C D For there's not a man could best me while standing toe to toeG C G/B C But I defied the crooked sheriff, for I wouldn't throw his fight awayG C G D G He should have laid it on at 5 to 2, and backed the bold ConwayG G/B Em C I was lifted in Con Peoples, with the beer and music flowing freeG G/B C D Where my brothers had just left me, Oh bad fortune for meG C G/B C Dragged out by crooked cowards, their batons knocked me off my feetG C G D G And they left me to die there, like a dog in the street.C C G G Far from the Anaconda, the mine with seven stacksC C Em D Far from the ashen faces of young men with crooked backsG G/B Em C Far from the granite mountain and the dusty grave in which I lieG C G D G My spirit chases starlings 'round a clear Mayo sky.
Michael Conway
Solas
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Tom: