An' Cuba, she too, wid her hulabaloo,
May just as well bundle an' go;
You won't hear us now, wid our murtherin row,
You'll sleep it out whether or no!
Arrah what do we mane at all?

Ah! then, by my sowl, this thratemint is foul--
To put your best frinds to the blush;
An' wor you sinsare, in what you sed there
We'd tie up your whistle, my thrush!
But ULICK, machree, you can't desave me,
By sayin' the word you don't mane;
Or make her beleeve who stands at me sleeve,
In FISH an' his Castles in Spane.
Arrah what do you mane at all?

'Tis late in the day to talk in that way;
We've had ministhers dishes galore,
An' laste to my taste, at the blundherin faste,
The sauce ov that fish one, asthore.
No, ULICK, alan! the work that's in han'
Must be done by yourself, if at all.
Your cooks, by my troth, are burnin' the broth,
We smell it out here in the hall!
Arrah what do you mane at all?

No, ULICK, my boy, rise up to our joy,
An' make a clane sweep ov the crowd
Of tinkerin tools, an' blundherin fools,
That put your wits undher a cloud.