Did ye’s ever go Int’ill an Irishman’s shanty?
Och! b’ys, that’s the place where the whiskey is plenty;
With his pipe in his mouth, there sits Paddy so free,
No king in his palace is prouder than he!
There’s a three-legged stool, with a table to match,
And the door of the shanty is locked with a latch;
There’s a nate feather mattrass, all bustin with straw,
For the want of a bedstead, it lies on the floor.
There’s a snug little bureau without paint or gilt,
Made of boords that was left when the shanty was built;
There’s a three-cornered mirror hangs up on the wall,
The divil a face has been in it at all.
He has pigs in the sty, and a cow in the stable,
And he feeds them on scraps that is left from the table;
They’d starve if confined, so they roam at their aise,
And come in the shanty whinever they plaise.
He has three rooms in one—kitchen, bed-room and hall,
And his chist is three wooden pegs in the wall;
Two suits of old clothes makes his wardrobe complete,
One to wear in the shanty, the same for the street.
He can relish good victuals as ever ye’s ate.
But is always continted with praties and mate;
He prefers them when cowld (if he can’t get them hot,)
And makes tay in a bowl when he cant get a pot.
There is one who partakes of his sorrows and joys,
Attends to the shanty, the girls and the boys;
(The brat’s he thinks more of than gold that’s refined,)
But Biddy’s the jewel that’s get in his mind.
The rich may divide their enjoyments alone,
With those who have riches as great as their own;
But Pat hangs the latch-string outside of his poor,
And will share his last cent with the needy and poor,