St. Patrick, they say,

Kicked the snakes in the say,

But, ochone! if he'd had such a hound-pack as mine,

I fancy the Saint,

(Without further complaint)

Would have toed the whole troop of them into the brine.

Once they shivered and stared,

At my whip-cracking scared;

Now the clayrics with mitre and crosier and book,

Put the scumfish on me,

And, so far as I see,

There's scarce a dog-crayture

But's changed in his nature.

I must beat some game up by hook or by crook,

But my chances of Sport

Are cut terribly short

On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!

With a thundering polthogue,

And the toe of my brogue,

I'd like to kick both of 'em divil knows where!

Sure I broke 'em meself,

And, so long "on the shelf"

They ought to be docile, the dogs of my care.

O'BRIEN mongrel villin,

And as for cur DILLON

Just look at him ranging afar at his will!

I thought, true as steel,

They would both come to heel,

Making up for the pack

Whistled off by false MAC,

As though he'd ever shoot with my patience and skill!

To me ye'll not stick, Sirs?

What divil's elixirs

Tempt ye on the Twelfth in the morning?

Plague on ye, come back!

Och! ye villainous pack,

Ye slaves of the Saxon, ye blind bastard bunch!

Whelps weak and unstable,

I only am able

The Celt-hating Sassenach wholly to s-c-rr-unch!

Yet for me ye won't work,

But sneak homeward and shirk,

Ye've an eye on the ould spider, GLADSTONE, a Saxon!

He'll sell ye, no doubt.

Sure, a pig with ring'd snout

Is a far boulder baste

Than such mongrels! The taste

Of the triple-plied thong BULL will lay your base backs on

Will soon make ye moan

That ye left me alone

On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!