Darlint Potheen.

Arrah, lave me alone, boys, to sigh an' to moan, boys,
For sure it's mesilf that's in grief an' disthress;
They're taxin' the craythur, aginst human nathur;
They'll soon have this land in the divil's own mess.
We've kept up our sperrits, an' stood on our merits,
Before those ould Tories cum on to the scene;
But sure the bould Major was made for a guager,
Bad luck to the varmint who taxes potheen.

Sure vile digradashun must fall on the nation
That gives up its whisky for coffee or tay;
It stands sure to rayson that sorrow an' thraison
Must come whin our pluck an' our sperrits decay;
Our Thrishurer's ackshun may plaise a small facshun,
It's jist an injucemint for chaitin' the Queen,
Sly stills will be goin' where pure creeks are flowin'—
In spite o' the Major we'll have our potheen.

In histhory's story we'll find Britain's glory
Is jew to the bottle, the keg, an' the flask;
Aitch hayro so stout, boys, was ne'er put to rout boys,
Bekays aitch bould warrior fought in his casque;
Should our legislachure now wather the craychur
Begorra there soon will be wigs on the green;
The beer an' the brewin' may all go to ruin
So long as they lave us our darlint potheen.

Paddy Murphy.