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Oh, the lump of an Irishman,

The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue—the fighting,

rioting Irishman.

One of his eyes was bottle-green,

And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear.

Oh, the great big Irishman,

The rattling, battling Irishman--The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering

swash of an Irishman.

He took so much of Lundy-foot

That he used to snort and snuffle-O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.

Oh, the horrible Irishman,

The thundering, blundering Irishman--The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hash

ing Irishman.

His name was a terrible name, indeed,

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch
He'd not rest till he filled it full again.

The boozing, bruising Irishman,

The 'toxicated IrishmanThe whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy


This was the lad the lady loved,

Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jo!lity.

Oh, the leathering Irishman,

The barbarous, savage IrishmanThe hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.

William Maginn (1793-1842]



O’RYAN was a man of might

Whin Ireland was a nation,
But poachin' was his heart's delight

And constant occupation.
He had an ould militia gun,

And sartin sure his aim was;
He gave the keepers many a run

And wouldn't mind the game laws.

St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by

O’Ryan's little houldin',
And, as the saint felt wake and dhry,

He thought he'd enther bould in.
“O'Ryan,” says the saint, "avick!

To praich at Thurles I'm goin',
So let me have a rasher quick,

And a dhrop of Innishowen.”



“No rasher will I cook for you,

While betther is to spare, sir,
But here's a jug of mountain dew,

And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,

And says he, “Good luck attind you,
And, when you're in your windin' sheet,

It's up to heaven I'll sind you."

O’Ryan gave his pipe a whiff

"Them tidin's is thransportin'; But may I ax your saintship if There's

any kind of sportin'?"
St. Pathrick said, “A Lion's there,

Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer".
“Bedad,” says Mick, "the huntin's rare;

St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir.”

So, to conclude my song aright,

For fear I'd tire your patience,
You'll see O'Ryan any night

Amid the constellations.
And Venus follows in his track,

Till Mars grows jealous raally,
But, faith, he fears the Irish knack
Of handling the shillaly.

Charles Graham Halpine (1829–1868]


When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,

Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,

My brother in Moharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:

They read in their books of prayer; I read in my book of songs

I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time,

To leter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,

But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,

Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,

And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,

They all come up to me,
With “Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.

William Butler Yeats (1865


On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born,
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock,
And some blamed the babby---and some blamed the clock-
Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know
If the child was too fast, or the clock was too slow.

Now the first saction-fight in owld Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday:
Some fought for the eighth--for the ninth more would die,
And who wouldn't see right, sure they blackened his eye!
At last, both the factions so positive grew,"
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two,
Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,
Said, “No one could have two birthdays, but a twins.”
Says he, “Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine,
Don't be always dividin'—but sometimes combine;
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,
So let that be his birthday.”—“Amen,” says the clerk.
“If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist’ry will show
That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!”
Then they all got blind dhrunk-which complated their

And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

Samud Lover (1797-1864)


St. PATRICK was a gentleman,

Who came of decent people;
He built a church in Dublin town,

And on it put a steeple.
His father was a Gallagher;

His mother was a Brady;
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy,

His uncle an O'Grady.

So, success attend St. Patrick's fist,

For he's a saint so clever;
Oh! he gave the snakes and toads a twist,

And bothered them forever!

The Wicklow hills are very high,

And so's the Hill of Howth, sir; But there's a hill, much bigger still,

Much higher nor them both, sir: 'Twas on the top of this high hill

St. Patrick preached his sarmint That drove the frogs into the bogs,

And banished all the varmint.

There's not a mile in Ireland's isle

Where dirty varmin musters,
But where he put his dear fore-foot,

And murdered them in clusters.
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop,

Slap-dash into the water;
And the snakes committed suicide

To save themselves from slaughter.

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue

He charmed with sweet discourses,
And dined on them at Killaloe

In soups and second courses.
Where blind-worms crawling in the grass

Disgusted all the nation,
He gave them a rise, which opened thcir eyes

To a sense of their situation.


No wonder that those Irish lads

Should be só gay and frisky,
For sure St. Pat he taught them that,

As well as making whiskey;
No wonder that the saint himself

Should understand distilling,
Since his mother kept a shebeen-shop

In the town of Enniskillen.

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