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Saint Patrick was a gentleman, and cam o' dacent people,

He built a church in Dublin town, and upon it put a steeple ;

His mother was a Callaghan, his father was a Brady,

His sister was an O'Huolin, and his brother an O'Grady.

ECHORUS-Noh! noh! noh! noh!

Success attend St. Patrick's fist, for he's the dacent saint 0,

He gave the bugs and toads a twist, he's a beauty without paint O!

The Wicklow hills are very high, and so's the hill of Howth, soo;

But I know of a hill that's twice as high, and taller than them both, too;


'Twas on the top of that high mount where St. Patrick preach'd his sarmint,

He made the frogs jump through the bogs, and he banish'd all the varmint.

Noh! noh! &c.

No wonder that we Irish boys should be so gay and frisky,

For St. Patrick taught the happy knack of drinking of the whiskey.

Twas he that brew'd the best o' malt, and understood distilling,

For his mother kept a sheeban shop, in the town of Inniskillen,

Noh! noh! &o,

Then should I be so fortunate as to go back Munster,

Och! I'll be bound that from that ground, aga I ne'er once would stir,

'Twas there St Patrick planted turf, and plenty of the praties,

With pigs gotore, agrath m'stere, and butter-mill

and ladies.

Noh! noh! &c.

Lond roared the dreadful thunder!
The rain a deluge showers;
The clouds were rent asunder

By the lightning's vivid powers!
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,

Till next day, there she lay,

In the Bay of Biscay O!
Now dashed upon the billow,

Our op'ning timbers creak;
Each fears a wat'ry pillow,

None stop the dreadful leak!
To cling the slipp'ry shrouds,
Each breathless seatman crowds,
As she lay, till the day,

In the Bay of Biscay O!

At length the wished for morrow
Broke through the hazy sky;
Absorbed in silent sorrow,

Each heav'd a bitter sigh;

The dismal wreck to view,
Struck horror to the crew,
And as she lay on that day,

In the Bay of Biscay O!
Her yielding timbers sever,

Her pitchy seams are rent;
When Heaven, all bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent!
A sail in sight appears,
We hail her with three cheers!
Now we sail, with the gale,

From the Bay of Biscay O!


Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of her crew:

No more he'll hear the tempest bowling,
For death has brought him too.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many, and true hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:

And when he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah! many's the time and oft:

But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When he who all commands,

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Shall give (to call life's crew together)
The word to pipe all hands.

Thus death who kings and 'ars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doff'd;

" For his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft.



Away with melancholy,
Nor doleful changes ring,
On life and human folly,
But merrily let us sing,
Fal la.

For what's the use of sighing,
When time is on the wing;
Can we prevent its flying?
Then merrily let us sing.
Fal la.

Come on ye rosy hours,

Gay smiling moments bring,
We'll strew the way with flowers,
And merrily, merrily sing.
Fal la.


When Arthur first in court began,
To wear long hanging sleeves;
He entertained three serving men,
And all of them were thieves.

The first he was an Irishman,
The second was a Scot;
The third was a Welshman,
And all were knaves I wot.

The Irishman he loved usquebaugh,
The Scot lov d ale called blue-tap,
The Welchman he lov'd toasted cheese,
And made his mouth a mouse trap.

Usquebaugh burnt the Irishman's throat,
The Scot was drown'd in ale,

The Welchman had like to have been chok'd by a mouse,

And he pulled it out by the tail.


Ye gentlemen of England,

That live at home at ease, Ah! little do you think upon The dangers of the seas. Give ear unto the mariners,

And they will plainly show,
All the cares and the fears,
When the stormy winds do blow.
When the stormy winds, &c.

If enemies oppose us,
When England is at war
With any foreign nation,
We tear not wound nor scar;
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em
Our valour for to know,

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