She sez that your name a by-word of shame
Will be to the nations onborn,
If you lie there anmov'd whilst the flag that you lov'd
Is flouted by Spaniards wid scorn.
Arrah what do you mane at all?

She sez, an' wid grief, her love for the chief,
That fought neath her bannir so long,
Will turn into hate, that will cling to the fate
Ov him who now sides wid the wrong.
She sez ov all woes that misery knows,
The grief ov the wronger's the worst
Who houlds back his ban' from a sufferin' lan'
An' laves her to tyrants accurs'd!
Arrah what do you mane at all?

Ah! _that_ stirs your blood; I thought that it wud.
Your rizin', me bouchal; it's done!
Go on wid your pray'rs! I'm kickin' down-stairs
This ould Spanish mack'rel, for fun.
Sweet Liberty here, and Cuba, my dear!
You'll stay for the bite an' the sup?
An' pardon my joy; since I've woke up the boy
I don't know what ind ov me's up!
Arrah what did he mane at all?

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