AH! shure boys, the world has gone crazy,
And there's plinty of throuble in shtore,
Ivery mornin' I wake up onaisy
Bekase I can't shleep any more.
'Twas CROMWELL, bad scran to 'im, done it,
Him that murdhered King CHARLES, ochone!
And since the black villin begun it
Ould Erin's done nothing but groan,
And moan,
It would soften the heart of a shtone.
By the poker, I'm boilin' with passion
Whin I think of the laws that they make;
At a fair the bhoys heads ye can't smash in,
Nor get dacently dhrunk at a wake.
There's only twelve pince in a shillin',
And not more than two pints in a quart,
Onless you are cliver at fillin',
And can make it hould more than it ought.
Don't be caught,
Or, be jabers, they'll make you pay for't.
Where's the kings and the princes of Erin
That lived on purtaties and point,
And niver saw year out and year in
The divil a taste of a joint?
Thim toirants now buy all our bacon,
And the linen, and butther, and that,
All that grows in the counthry is taken
From Antrim to Mullinavat.
Poor Pat
Has to sell at a profut, that's flat.
Well, honies, I'll give ye a hint,
And let ivery one do it who can;
When the bag of thirteens is all spint,
Set up for a Parliament man.
Thim's the boys that gets lashins of drinkin',
And they dine wanst a week wid the Queen,
Where the glasses are niver done clinkin',
Wid the Royalties jokin' and spreein',
Jubileein',
And such doins as niver was seen.
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