Come, come, my brave fellows, no more of your chat,
For I’ll not be teas’d by any cock’s-muir brat,
Though on Iriſh fare he grow plump and fat;
So my brave lads take this warning.
And, my gay fellows, no more of your jaw,
Or in one moment my ſword I will draw,
And run through your body while ſtrength I can ſhow,
To make you look ſharp in the morning.
But Arthur and I we ſoon took the odds,
We gave them no time to draw out their blades,
Our truſty ſhilelahs came over their heads,
Which made them look ſharp in the morning.
As for the little drummer, we flatter’d his pow,
And made a foot-ball of his row de dow,
Kick’d it in the tide, for to rock and to row,
And wiſh’d it a tedious returning.
For the ruſty weapons that hung by their ſide,
We threw them as far as we could in the tide,
Saying, take them now Devil, from Arthur M’Bride,
And temper their edge in the morning.
The Bard’s Legacy.
When in death I ſhall calm recline,
Oh! bear my heart to my miſtreſs dear,
Tell her it lived on ſmiles and wine
