( 5 )
THE LAND OF SHILELAH.
Arrah come, sons of Erin, I’ll give you a song;
The Shilelah’s my theme, of course ’twill not be long;
And if with attention you’ll honour the tune,
To the words you’re as welcome as roses in June,
The Irish shilelah, och! faith its no joke,
Is nearly a kin to the old English oak;
The relationship no one will doubt, sure, who knows,
The striking similitude felt in their blows.
In the land of potatoes, I mean no offence,
The shilelah first sprouted, its price and defence;
By freedom ’twas planted, it flourish’d and grew,
And the fame of this sapling is know the world thro’.
The shilelah’s an Irishman’s joy and delight;
His companion by day, his protection by night;
And though rough in appearance, you all must allow,
That its mighty engaging when seen in a rowe.
That thief of the world, Bonaparte declares,
He’d fain be at the head, Sirs, of Irish affairs;
About writing you wrongs should a foreigner prate,
Och, let your shilelah fall whack on his pate.
The French gasconaders have long made a boast,
They’ll Old England invade on the Irishman’s coast;
Should they dare from your shamrock to rifle a sprig,
Och, show the blackguares you can handle a twig.
Let bampers, then, sons of Hibernia, go round,
The toast I propose, in your hearts will be found;
