With that old light step of his, across the Courts of Heaven,
His hat a little sideways and his stick held so.
The pick o' seven counties, so they're tellin' me, was there,
Horses racin' on the track, and fiddles on the green,
Flyin' flags and blowin' horns and all that makes a fair,
I'm hearin' that the like of it was something never seen.
So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, it may be true—