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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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In choosing your mate, don't "cut it too fat,"
Nor by eny manes over lean, For the keind o' mutton that plazes Pat
Is—a sort of betwixt and betwane. Your pertatles should be of the mealy sort,
And your onions sound and swate; And Its pale 'em, and wash 'em, and slice 'em, yer AUfht,
And pop 'em both In with the mate.
So let me give, etc.
Then pepper, and salt, and sason to taste—
Och! the wather, I'd most forgot— Pour in—just enough—if ye schwamp it the laste,
By jabers, ye'll shpoil the lot. Then yez can sit down and watch the pot boil.
Till the mate's done thoroughly through; And you'll soon be rewarded for all your toil,
By a savory Irish shtew.
So let me give, etc. |
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BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.
Bad luck to this marching,
Pipeclaying and starching; How neat one must be to be killed by the French!
I'm sick of parading,
Through wet and cowld wading, Or standing all night to be shot in the trench.
To the tune o' a fife,
They dispose of your life, You surrender your soul to some illlgant lilt,
Now I like Garryowen,
"When I hear It at home, But It's not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt.
Then though up late and early,
Our pay comes so rarely, The devil a farthing we've ever to spare;
They say some disaster
Befell the paymaster; On my conscience 1 think that the money's not there.
And, just think, what a blunder—
They won't let us plunder, "While the people invite us to rob 'em, 'tis clear,
Though there isn't a village,
But cries, "Come and pillage," Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.
Like a sailor that's nigh land,
I long for that island "Where even the kisses we steal If we please;
Where it Is no disgrace
If you don't wash your face, And you've nothing to do but stand at your ease.
With no sergeant t' abuse us,
We fight to amuse us, Sure it's better beat Christian than kick a baboon;
How I'd dance like a fairy,
To see ould Dunleary, And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon.
THE BOYS OF KILKENNY.
Oh, the boys of Kilkenny are brave roaring blades,
And If ever they meet with the nice little maids,
They'll kiss them and coax them, and spend their money free—
Of all the towns of Ireland, Kilkenny for me.
In the town of Kilkenny there runs a. clear stream, In the town of Kilkeuny there lives a pretty dame; Her lips are like roses and her mouth much the same. Like a dish of fresh strawberries smothered in cream. |
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