3
At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with blows,
From a Sprig, &c.
He meets with his Shileah, who blushing a smile
Cries get ye gone Pat, yet consents all the while.
To the priest they soon go, and nine months after that
A fine baby cries, how d’ye do father Pat,
With your Sprig, &c.
Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth,
Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth,
Where grows the Shilela, &c.
May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,
Drub the foes that dare land in our confines a' cannon,
United and happy at loyalty’s shrine,
May the rose and the Thistle long flourish and twine
Round the sprig of Shilela and Shamrock so green.
I’LL SOON HAE A WIFE O‘ MY AIN.
FRAE Clyde to the banks of sweet Earn,
