THE LAND OF POTATOES, OH.
Oh, had I in the clear five-hundred a year,
'Tis- myself would not fear, though not aided one farthing of it;
Faith, if such was my lot, little Ireland's the spot
Where I'd build a snug cot, with a bit of garden to it.
As for Italy's dales, their Alps and high vales,
And their fine squalling gales, their signoras so heat as, oh;
I'd never onto thee come, nor abroad ever roam,
But enjoying my sweet home in the land of potatoes, oh,
Hospitality, all reality, no formality, there you'll ever see,
But be so free and easy, that we would amaze you;
You'll think us all crazy, for dull we can never be.
If our friend, honest Jack, would but take a small hack,
So get on his back, and in joy ride over fall to as;
He, throughout the whole year, should have the best cheer,
But. faith, no one's so dear as our brother. John Bull, to us.
And we'd teach him when there, both to blander and swear,
And our brogue with him share, which both genteel and neat is, oh;
By St. Patrick, I think, when we'd teach him to drink,
That he'd ne'er wish to shrink from the land of potatoes, oh,-Chorus.
Though I'd frankly agree that I'd more happy be,
If some heavenly she. in this country, would favor me;
For no spot on the earth can more merits bring forth,
If beauty and wealth can embellish, such is the she.
Good breeding, good nature, you see in each feature,
So nought you've to teach her, so nice and complete she's, oh;
Then if fate would but send unto me such a friend,
What a life could I spend in the land of potatoes, oh,-Chorus.