LIFE IN IRELAND 33 



A piece of my sconce was at Leipsic blown up, 

 And went off with the bridge in a terrible roar, 



I was fairly knocked down but not fairly knock' d up. 

 For still I exist to drink whiskey galore. 



Ireland ! dear country ! congenial for begging, 

 How gladly I look on thy green hills again ; 



My dear native mud I at ease stick my peg in, 



Nor painfully stump it through Gallia and Spain ; 



With a can of sweet butter-milk fresh in the morning, 

 And at dinner sweet murphys boil'd up by the score, 



1 live like a fighting cock, dunghill birds scorning. 

 And at supper I revel in whiskey galore. 



Long life to the land where the malt is a making, 



Oh, blest be the turf a potatoe root yields ; 

 May Heaven throw plenty, and not be mistaken, 



To flourish luxurious in Paddy's own fields ; 

 May every old woman enjoy her dudine. 



As her fathers and mothers have all done before, 

 And a hedge ne'er be wanting old Murdoch to screen. 



When he sits in the sheugh and drinks whiskey galore. 



So sang honest Murdoch, the gallant brave soldier, 



Whose spirit in beggary all must admire, 

 More cheerful he grew as each day he grew older, 



Age lighted his taper at youth's blazing fire. 

 * Success,' he would cry, ' to the bridge of Drumcondra, 



* Where sentry I '\\ stand till life's campaign is o'er,' 

 Then raising his canteen towards his old rum jaw. 



He "d drink the King's health in good whiskey galore. 



With the preceding ditty Captain Grammachree 

 amused himself, while Brian and his friend retired to 

 arrange matters for his first dash into 



LIFE IN DUBLIN ! 



END OF CHAPTER III. 



