With throwing of brickbats, Drowned puppies and dead rats, These ruffin democrats themselves did lower; Tin kettles, rotten eggs, Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.
O the girls began to scrame And upset the milk and crame; And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and swore: And Mitchil of Belfast, 'Twas he that looked aghast, When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.
O the lovely tay was spilt On that day of Ireland's guilt; Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door? 'Tis a national disgrace: Let me go and veil me face;" And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.
"Cut down the bloody horde!" Says Meagher of the sword, "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;" But the best use Tommy made Of his famous battle blade Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.
Immortal Smith O'Brine Was raging like a line; 'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar; In his glory he arose, And he rushed upon his foes, But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.
Then the Futt and the Dthragoons In squadthrons and platoons, With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore; And they bate the rattatoo, But the Peelers came in view, And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.
You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole; He had but one eye, To ogle ye by-- Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l! A fool He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.
'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, That tuck down pataties and mail; He never would shrink From any sthrong dthrink, Was it whisky or Drogheda ale; I'm bail This Larry would swallow a pail.
Oh, many a night at the bowl, With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl; He's gone to his rest, Where's there's dthrink of the best, And so let us give his old sowl A howl, For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.
Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle Brady.
On Brady's tower there grows a flower, It is the loveliest flower that blows,-- At Castle Brady there lives a lady, (And how I love her no one knows); Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora Presents her with this blooming rose.
"O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora, "I've many a rich and bright parterre; In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers, But you're the fairest lady there: Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty, Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!"