Now all you young gents to my song lend your ear,
Tis about a poor Irishman whose name Was Pat Clere;
His clothes were all patches, and torn was his hat,
So they called him the name of poor Ragged Pat.
Oh! boy, Paddy whack!
A cat won't catch mice if put in a sack.
On Sunday, at church, his coat was of black,
With a big ivory button sewed into its back,
And his breeches were blue, the cloth very coarse,
He'd look like a clown if he sat on a horse.-Chorus.
Now this gent, Ragged Pat, although he was poor,
Sickness, no matter what sort, he could cure;
With a measure of oats, another of grass,
He could take away glanders from any jackass.-Chorus.
His eyes they were black, and his voice was so sweet,
He stood up for the laws and on Friday eat meat;
On the Sabbath at church he'd sure shut his eyes,
With his big mouth wide open, as if catching flies.-Chorus.
As you gave close attention I'll here end my song,
Although full of pathos, yet not very long;
In the churchyard of Erin, far under the sod,
Lies poor Ragged Pat, but trustful in God.-Chorus.