uld Erin by the han';
We'll pummel the Britishers every man,
And make you King of Ireland!

Go tell them how you raised the flag,
The green above their crimson rag,
And should they talk of Yankee brag,
We'll tache them how to rue it.
Go tell them how all day you stud,
Wid both your nate feet in the mud,
As if it had been Saxon blood
And you wor fightin' thro' it!

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

Your innimies say you're not sincere,
Nor care a straw for Irish here,
Unless whin 'lection time is near,
And Irish votes are wanted.
But don't you throuble yourself at all,
We'll drive your innimies to the wall;
We know you better, OAKEY HALL,
Than take sich stuff for granted.

No! OAKEY, darlin', you're the wan
Who've tuk ould Erin by the han';
We'll pummel the Britishers every man,
And make you King of Ireland!

They say you want to be Mayor once more,
And after that, to be Governore--
As if you wouldn't be needed before,
To lade the Faynians over.
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,
And whin he's Ireland's King asthore,
Oh! ma