THE LITTLE OLD DUDDEEN
Sung by Harrigan and Hart.
There's a bit of clay on a little stim,
That's sweet enough to ate;
Whin filled up wid tobacco
Twould put a man to slape.
Twas introduced in Ireland
In the days of Brian Borhue;
I'd rather lose my life, my boys,
Than lose my honey-dew.
Some call it "Cavendish,"
Or any name you'd wish,
And they dale it out in plug, you know,
When it is fresh and green;
When from my work I tire,
I set down by the fire,
An' I watch the smoke roll up and curl,
From my little ould duddeen.
My duddeen, you are so sweet to me,
I love to see your smoke go up
Whin I get through my tea;
My duddeen, you are in the family,
I'd surely die if I found out
You were stole away from me.
If ye have studied history,
Ye'll read where William Pinn
Bought the State of Pinnsylvania
Prom the wild red Injin men;
He never used a sword or gun
When he met them face to face,
But they all sit down continted,
And they smoked the pipe of peace.
If yc'd only take a puff,
Shure, one would be enough
To put you in a slumber,
A stupor, or a dream.
Ye might say it's not ginteel,
But so beautiful I feel
Whin I sit down in the corner, boys,
Wid my little ould duddeen.-Chorus,
A Frenchman smokes the little thing
They call the cigarette,
It makes him feel uneasy,
As he blows, and puffs, and frets;
The Chinese smokes the opium,
Till it puts him in a doze;
And the Yankee smokes the bad cigar,
Wid one end to his nose;
But every Irishman-
Bould Patsey, Mike or Dan-
That was born in dear old Ireland,
Where the grasses grow so green,
If they've no coat to their back,
They've that bit of clay so black;
It's a consolation to them,
Is the little ould duddeen.-Chorus.