Who has e’er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair? An Irishman all in his glory is there, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new, without e’er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neck; He goes to his tent, and spends his half-crown, He meets with a friend who for love knocks him down, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows, From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while. To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that, A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?” With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?
“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth, Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green. May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Thrash the sons that would plant on their confines a cannon. United and happy, at liberty’s shrine, May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.”
When first I saw sweet Peggy, ’Twas on a market day; A Low Back’d Car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay. But when that hay was blooming grass, And deck’d with flowers of spring, No flowers were there that could compare With the lovely girl I sing, As she sat in the Low Back’d Car, the man at the turnpike bar, Good-natured old soul, never ask’d for his toll, But look’d after the Low Back’d Car.
In battle’s wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his tythes, Of death in warlike scars; But Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market-town, As right and left they fly; As she sits in the Low Back’d Car, than battle more dangerous far, For the doctor’s art, cannot cure the heart That is hit from the Low Back’d Car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese; But the scores of hearts she slaughters, By far outnumber these. While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming God of Love. As she sits in her Low Back’d Car, the lovers come from afar, And envy the chickens that Peggy is picking, As she rides in her Low Back’d Car.