And they say you raise this hullabaloo,
'Bout Ireland's wrongs, and Cuba's too,
That Irish fools might cotton to you,
And you might sit in clover.

But no! for OAKEY, you're the wan
That tuk ould Erin by the han';
We'll pummel the Britishers every man,
And make you King of Ireland!

Oh! no; we are not so aisy schooled,
By slanders bought wid Saxon goold;
They'll find, who think us so aisy fooled,
How much they underrate us.
Then up, mavrone! and take your stand,
The layder of the Faynian band,
And King you'll soon be of the land
Of shamrogues and potatoes!

Yes! OAKEY, darlin', you're the wan
That tuk ould Erin by the han';
We'll pummel the Britishers every man,
And make you King of Ireland.

So, good Saint PATRICK, bless the day
Whin Gineral HALL will march away,
Across the deep and briny say,
My country's bonds to sever;
And bless him whin he goes ashore.
And whin he walks in British gore,