University of Virginia Library

SONG.

MURTAGH O'SULLIVAN.

Mr Editor,—Plase put in print the above song, which you will find written inunder. It was penned by ould Mick M`Monigal, the blind piper, and as he cud not write it himself, becase of his blindness, he made me sit down and pen it for him. Och! many are the good things that have

come from his fertile pen, (for Mick is a bit of a genius,) and this is none of the worst of them.—Hoping you will put it in print for the edification of poor Paddy, I remain, Mr Editor, with all due submission and decorum, yours,

Och, whack! Murtagh O'Sullivan,
Tundering, blundering, spaech-howling Barney;
Good lack, art thou so silly vain,
As to suppose we'll be gulled wid thy blarney?
Sure now, thy ‘Raw-head and bloody-bones’ stories
That frighten ould wives,
Almost out of their lives,
Are just the stale fibs of the ould bloody Tories;
Servile hack of the pack,
Frothing their blarney?
Och, whack! Murtagh O'Sullivan,
Tundering, blundering, spaech-howling Barney.
Yell, yell, 'gainst your ould creed, my boy,
Such are the pranks of each base renegado;
Well, well, Devil give you speed, my boy,
Since you're ‘black Prelacy's’ brazen bravado,
Damning poor papists redounds to your profit,
Then hot in your ire,
Deal damnation and fire,
And send every heretic headlong to Tophet!
You're the lad for the squad,
Black desperado,
Yell, yell, 'gainst your ould creed, my boy,
Such are the pranks of each base renegado.
Howl, shout, down wid ‘foul Popery,’
Send to perdition the ould ‘Romish harlot;’
Bawl, spout, ‘mummery,’ ‘foppery,’
Yet deck your own Church's champions in scarlet;
Bayonets and lead for the poor Widow Ryan,
Then charge well your guns,
And massacre her sons,
And smear wid their blood the proud walls of your Zion;
Sacrifice Nature's ties,
Proud, pampered varlet.
Bawl, shout, ‘mummery,’ ‘foppery,’
Yet deck your own Church's champions in scarlet.
On, on, march all these lands throughout,
Cumberland's orange unholy Crusader;
Run, run, scatter firebrands about,
Ould haggard bigotry, needs thee to aid her.
Rouse every dark, diabolical passion,
That lurks 'mong the base,
And most vile of our race,
Wid fire and wid faggot most valiantly dash on,
Supple birch of the church,
Mad gasconader;
Run, run, scatter firebrands about,
Ould haggard bigotry, needs thee to aid her.