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THE IRISH BOY.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

THE IRISH BOY.

Young Paddy is merry and happy, but poor
His cabin is built in the midst of a moor;
No pretty green meadows about it are found,
But bogs in the middle, and mountains around.

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This wild Irish lad is content with his store,
Enjoys his potatoes, nor wishes for more;
As he merrily sits, with no care on his mind,
At the door of his cabin, and sings to the wind.
Close down at his feet lies his shaggy old dog,
Who has plunged with his master through many a bog:
If Paddy's wild song is concluded too soon,
Shag barks a loud chorus to finish the tune.
Poor Paddy, though rude, is still grateful and kind,
But error and ignorance darken his mind.
May the voice of religion and knowledge soon sound
Within the low cabin where Paddy is found!
Then let us not laugh at his bulls and his brogue,
Nor, because he's an Irishman, call him a rogue;
But rather with kindness and charity try
His mind to instruct, and his wants to supply.
And thus, while I sing of the wild Irish lad,
The Welsh boy, and Scot, with his bonnet of plaid,
I think I shall never be tempted to roam
From England, dear England, my own native home!