PADDY MACSHANE.
Tune—‘ Sprig of shillelah.'
If my own botheration don't alter my plan,
I'll sing seven lines of a tight Irishman,
Wrote by cld Biily Shakespeare of Ballyporeen,
He said while a babe I lov'd whisky and pap,
That I mewled and puk'd in my grandmother's
lap;
She joulted me hard just to hush my sweet roar,
When I slipp’d through her fingers down
whack on the floor,
What a squalling I made sure at Ballyporeen.
When I grew up a boy, with a nice shining face,
With a bag at my back, and a snail-crawling
pace,
Went to school at old Thwackum's at
Ballyporeen.
His wig was so fusty, his birch was my dread,
He learning beat out ’stead of into my head.
Master Macshane, says he, you're a great dirty
dolt,
You've got no more brains than a Monaghan
colt;
You're not fit for our college at Ballyporeen.
