Song I. SAINT PATRICK.
1
A fig for St. Dennis of France,
He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the Saints of the Welshman or Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with the patron of swipers,
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!
2
He came to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steam-boat he beat to a mile,
Which mighty good sailing was counted:
Says he, “The salt water, I think,
Has made me most bloodily thirsty,
So bring me a flagon of drink,
To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a saint.”
3
He preach'd then with wonderful force,
The ignorant natives a-teaching;
With a pint he wash'd down his discourse,
“For,” says he, “I detest your dry preaching.”
The people, with wonderment struck,
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaim'd “We're for you, my old buck,
And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,
Who dwells in hot water below.”
4
This ended, our worshipful spoon
Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightfully mellow.
That day, with a black jack of beer,
It chanced he was treating a party;
Says the saint, “This good day, do you hear,
I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty,
So give me a pull at the pot.”
5
The pewter he lifted in sport,
(Believe me, I tell you no fable,)
A gallon he drank from the quart,
And then planted it full on the table.
“A miracle!” every one said,
And they all took a haul at the stingo;
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo!
The pot still frothed over the brim.
6
Next day quoth his host, “'Tis a fast,
But I've nought in my larder but mutton,
And on Fridays who'd make such repast,
Except an unchristian-like glutton?”
Says Pat, “Cease your nonsense, I beg,
What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon!”
And the leg most politely complied.
7
You've heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes in a manner most antic,
He march'd to the county Mayo,
And trundled them into th' Atlantic.
Hence not to use water for drink
The people of Ireland determine;
With mighty good reason, I think,
Since St. Patrick has fill'd it with vermin,
And vipers, and other such stuff.
8
O! he was an elegant blade,
As you'd meet from Fair Head to Kilcrumper,
And though under the sod he is laid,
Yet here goes his health in a bumper!
I wish he was here, that my glass
He might by art magic replenish;
But as he is not, why, alas!
My ditty must come to a finish—
Because all the liquor is out!
