"Abdul Abulbul Amir" song written in 1877 (during the Russo-Turkish War) under the title "Abdulla Bulbul Ameer" by Percy French. It tells the story of two valiant heroes—the titular Abdulla, fighting for the Turks, and his foe (originally named Ivan Potschjinsky Skidar in French's version), a Russian warrior. INFO: Mudcat IrishMusic
This song was written in 1877 by Percy French at Trinity College for a college concert. His original title was Abdulla Bulbul Ameer. He sold it to an “unscrupulus” publisher for five pounds. He did not register his copyright to the song. It was published without credit to him and he never received royalties for its later success.
Many versions of the lyrics exist. The names of the principal characters are spelled in a variety of ways.
Abdulla Abulbul Ameer
[Chords: G7 C, F C, G7 C, G7 C] or D and A
Oh, the sons of the Prophet are hardy and grim
And quite unaccustomed to fear
But none were so reckless of life or of limb
As Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.
When they wanted a man to encourage the van
Or to harass the foe in the rear
Or to take a redoubt they would always send out
For Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.
There are heroes in plenty, and well known to fame
In the ranks that were led by the Czar,
But the bravest of all was a man by the name
Of Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.[ATISHOO!]
And perform on the Spanish guitar.
In fact quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.
One morning the Russian had shouldered his gun
And assumed his most truculent sneer
And was walking down town when he happened to run
Into Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.
"Young man," says Bulbul, "can your life be so dull
That you're anxious to end your career?—
For, infidel, know—you have trod on the toe
Of Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.”
“Take your ultimate look upon sunshine and brook,
Make your latest remarks on the war;
Which I mean to imply you're going to die,
Mr. Count Cask-o-whisky Cigar."
Said the Russian, "My friend, my remarks in the end
Would avail you but little, I fear,
For you'll never survive to repeat them alive,
Mr. Abdulla Bulbul Ameer."
Then the bold Mameluke drew his trusty chiboque
And shouted "Il Allah Akbar"
And being intent upon slaughter, he went
For Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.
But just as his knife had abstracted his life
(In fact he was shouting "Huzza!")
He felt himself struck by that subtle Calmuck,
Count Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.[ATISHOO!]
The Consul drove up in his red-crested fly
To give the survivor a cheer,
He arrived just in time to exchange a goodbye
With Abdulla Bulbul Ameer.
And Skobeleff, Gourko and Gorsechekoff too
Drove up on the Emperor's car
But all they could do was cry "och-whilliloo!"
With Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.[ATISHOO!]
There's a grave where the waves of the Blue Danube roll,
And on it in characters clear
Is: "Stranger, remember to pray for the soul
Of Abdulla Bulbul Ameer."
A Muscovite maiden her vigil doth keep
By the light of the true lover's star
And the name that she murmurs so sadly in sleep
Is Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.[ATISHOO!]
— original limited edition privately published by Percy French and Archie West
[ATISHOO!] = Potschijinski is pronounced like a sneeze.
Seamus Kennedy
Eastern version - shadow puppets.
My parents and parents in law remember the song fondly. When I read it first I thought it not very politically correct!? Written by a British subject and it wouldn’t perhaps be all that funny if you were Russian or Turkish. Maybe. But funny as only naughty songs can be. Then I thought about bookending the song with some verses setting up the singer to land themself in some hot water with some Russian and Turkish people in the audience.
Start song with Eastern Europe/Russian/Balkan style yodel/calling. Eh ? Put on Turkish and Russian accents. Oh yeah. Or Scottish and Turkish (joke later on). A celebration of International culture, which cultures ? British/Irish . . and imagined Turkish and Russian Turko-Russian war. (1877-1878)
Abdulla Abulbul Ameer comes to visit a culturally more diverse Ireland
Oh, I was visiting back home in the countryside, And we all went out to the hall.
The community centre was packed and all the chairs full, For a bit of a sing song ovall.
Well the craic it was mighty and the spirits sky high,
I was encouraged and pre-vailed upon,
To sing a wee song, Sure I might as well try,
What in the world could go wrong.
I thought of an old song, a funny old song,
Written by Percy French.
In Trinity college in Dublin the big news going on,
Well Percy he wrote poems and songs,
and painted watercolour stains.
This song he sold off for 5 pounds,
And the day job he held was ‘inspector of drains’.
Well, I launched into the song with gusto and goo
I’d better give this a good shot
I warbled and wimbled and carolled calooh
I’ll give this one all I have got
. . .and it went like this:
[Chords: G7 C, F C, G7 C, G7 C] or D and A
Oh, the sons of the Prophet are hardy and grim
. . . e.t.c. 6 or 7 verses . . .
Now during the song there were laughs and some cheers, Some whistles and cat calls too.
Initially that is . . , then after a while,
Something was up was a-do.
There was a smattering of some polite applause
Humff a bit underwhelming.
Then I looked up and regarded the crowd
And started to develop a bit of an understandinginkling.
I tried not to lock eyes with two lads up at the front,
and another two or three that were there,
Regular healthy farmers tans they all had
But they carried a certain exotic air. [Spoken “or ‘je ne sais quois’ for the Irish speakers among you”]
The two lads up the front were Eeeh-normous you could say,
Both had finely groomed beards,
The tallest one had swarthy skin and dark eyes,
The spit of Abdulla Abulbul Amir.
The other one had ice blue eyes and short blond hair, And a stance like Vladmir Putin,
No doubt a descendant of the bravest Russian,
Count Ivan Potschjinski Skidar.[ATISHOO!]
Well I turned a deep deep deeep beet red,
And I made to escape from the front.
Blocked by the crowd I fear,
Nose to nose,
Eye to eye,
Cheek to cheek,
With . . . Abdulla Abulbul Amir.
Said the Count: “you beeg eejit” “zhure it’s allright” “I’m not goin’ ta eat ya alive”
And Abdullah said “good man.” “That was a graand song”, “but one thingk I can’t figger out” . .
Well he pinned me down with a quizzical stare,
and raised his large left eyebrow up high,
And asked me then “Why ever, in the wordld?
did Abdulla have a Scottish accent!?!?!”
So, well, the joke is on me . . .
That’s the end of the song.
And I hope no offence has been taken!
Apologies to Percy French and the audience
for the expansion of this over-long song from 7 verses to 13 and a half! . . . or so. And for the occasional awkwardness of rythm. And lack of rhyme also. In many places.
BA - DUM - SKISSS.
Well I hope you have enjoyed this song :-P
Turkish accent.
Not a million miles away from Russian.
Th -> short d front of mouth
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