Published by Chas. Magnus, 12 Frankfort St. N.Y.
Here I am Paddy Burke, a true Irish turk,
My fortune to mend I’ve left the ould dart,
I’m in the devil’s bad luck, I’ve lost all my pluck,
Sure I’m poorer just now, then when I did start;
I walk round the street, but no work can I meet,
My feet are all blisters like an old frying pan,
Bad luck to the niggers, their dirty black figures,
Sure they’ll work half as cheap as a poor Irishman.
Faith I must be blind, to leave my old home behind,
Where praties were plenty as stones on the ground,
And sturabout sweet, sure that was a treat.
When eaten with buttermilk the best to be found:
And whiskey you divil, to make a man civil,
Or cheer up his heart if there be any need,
And cabbage as big as a dacent sized pig,
But when I think of them it makes my heart bleed.
But now I’m in grief, and want some relief,
For starvation is staring me straight in the face;
My britches are worn, and in tatters are torn,
Sure if I stole a pair it would be no disgrace;
My hat it hangs down, out of shape and of crown,
And my toes like big praties stick out of my shoes,
My shirt once new, has turned black and blue,
And though I try to keep my spirits, but ’tis no use.
They tell me to fight, for a cause that is right,
And list in the legion of the brave Corcoran:
To wollop the rebels, the dirty black devils,
As fighting’s the nature of a true Irishman.
I’ll list right away, without any delay,
And get a big bounty in the new postage stamps,
Then I’ll drink whiskey galore, as in days before,
Hurrah for ould Ireland and the American Camp.
Ten illustrated Songs on Notepaper, mailed to any Address on receipt of 50 cts. Published by Chas. Magnus, 12 Frankfort St. N.Y.