Be-sainted Padraic, snake-chaser,
Misanthropic monk,
Your day was born here not there
Where they though you daft,
Praise god, our Oyrich
Greener than your Oyrish,
Grass seen greener from here,
And all that, so down your Tateys
Mateys and quaff a draft
For the auld island sod,
Ain’t no glory in starving
When you’re under the
Heels of rich men and their priests.