Category Archives: Humour

Pat of Mullingar

They may talk of Flying Childers, and the speed of Harkaway,
Till the fancy it bewilders, as you list to what they say;
But for real bone and beauty, though to travel far and near,
The fastest mare you’ll find belongs to Pat of Mullingar.

She can trot along, jog along, drag a jaunting car,
No day’s so long, when you set along with Pat of Mullingar.

She was bred in Connemara, and brought up in Castlemaine,
She won cups at the Curragh, the finest baste on all the plain;
All the countries and conveyances she has been buckled to,
She lost an eye at Limerick and an ear at Waterloo

She can trot along, jog along, drag a jaunting car,
No day’s so long, when you set along with Pat of Mullingar.

If a friend you wish to find, sir, I’ll go wherever you want,
I’ll drive you out of your mind, sir, or a little way beyont;
Like an arrow through the air if you’ll step upon the car,
You’ll ride behind the little mare of Pat of Mullingar.

She can trot along, jog along, drag a jaunting car,
No day’s so long, when you set along with Pat of Mullingar.

To Dallymount or Kingstown, if the place you wish to see,
I’ll drive you to the Strawberry beds, it’s all the same to me:
To Donnybrook, whose ancient air is famed for love or war,
Or, if you have time to spare, we’ll go to Mullingar

She can trot along, jog along, drag a jaunting car,
No day’s so long, when you set along with Pat of Mullingar.

When on the road we’re going, the other Carmen try
(without the darlin’ knowing) to pass her on the sly;
Her one ear points up to the sky, she tucks her haunches in,
Then shows the lads how she can fly as I sit still and grin.

She can trot along, jog along, drag a jaunting car,
No day’s so long, when you set along with Pat of Mullingar.

Then should yez want a car, sirs, I hope you’ll not forget
Poor Pat of Mullingar, sirs, and his darlin’ little pet;
She’s as gentle as the dove, sirs, her speed you can’t deny,
And there’s no blind side about her, tho’ she hasn’t got an eye.

She can trot along, jog along, drag a jaunting car,
No day’s so long, when you set along with Pat of Mullingar.

Nell Flaherty’s Drake

My name it is Nell, right candid I tell,
And I live near a cool hill I will never deny,
I had a large drake, the truth for to spake,
My grandfather left me when going to die;
He was merry and sound, and would weigh twenty pound,
The universe round would I rove for his sake.
Bad luck to the robber, be he drunken or sober,
That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake.

His neck it was green, and rare to be seen,
He was fit for a queen of the highest degree.
His body so white, it would give you delight,
He was fat, plump and heavy, and brisk as a bee.
This dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,
He could fly like a swallow, or swim like a hake,
But some wicked habbage, to grease his white cabbage,
Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake!

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt.
That a ghost may him haunt in the dead of the night.
May his hens never lay, may his horse never neigh,
May his goat fly away like a dead paper kite;
May his duck never quack, may his goose be turned black
And pull down her stack with his long yellow beak.
May the scurvy and itch never part from the britch
Of the wretch that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake!

May his rooster ne’er crow, may his bellows not blow,
Nor potatoes to grow – may he never have none –
May his cradle not rock, may his chest have no lock,
May his wife have no frock for to shade her backbone.
That the bugs and the fleas may this wicked wretch tease,
And a piercing north breeze make him tremble and shake.
May a four years’ old bug build a nest in the lug
Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his pipe never smoke, may his tea-pot be broke,
And to add to the joke, may his kettle not boil;
May he be poorly fed till the hour he is dead.
May he always be fed on lobscouse and fish oil.
May he swell with the gout till his grinders fall out,
May he roar, howl, and shout with a horrid toothache,
May his temple wear horns and his toes corns,
The wretch that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

May his dog yelp and howl with both hunger and cold,
May his wife always scold till his brains go astray.
May the curse of each hag, that ever carried a bag,
Light down on the wag till his head it turns gray.
May monkeys still bite him, and mad dogs affright him,
And every one slight him, asleep or awake.
May wasps ever gnaw him, and jackdaws ever claw him,
The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake.

But the only good news I have to diffuse,
Is of Peter Hughs and Paddy McCade,
And crooked Ned Manson, and big nosed Bob Hanson,
Each one had a grandson of my beautiful drake.
Oh! my bird he has dozens of nephews and cousins,
And one I must have, or my heart it will break.
To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy,
And so ends the song of my beautiful drake.

Pat Pat and the Pig

Written by J. E. Carpenter.

Twas near Limerick town lived bould Paddy O’Linn,
No boy a shillelagh could so nately spin;
But och! Down his throat, when the whiskey he’d tossed,
Sly Paddy oft found things before they were lost.
From the cabin of widdy O’Connor one day,
A fat little pig, as pigs will, got astray;
Says Pat, “You’re blind drunk, it’s my feelin’s you shock;”
Then he fell o’er the pig, as he gave him a knock;
“Och, piggy,” says he, “’tis good manners you need;
It’s myself you’ve near kilt, you disgrace to your breed.
But my bacon you’ve saved, so to give you your due,
It’s cured you shall be – I’ll make bacon of you.”

The grunter Pat cured, and soon put out of sight,
But the ghost of that pig haunted Pat day and night;
So at last to his riv’rence he went and confessed,
Having that on his mind that he couldn’t digest.
“Och, Pat!” said the priest, “only think of the day
When the widdy shall charge you with stealing away
The pig she looked to for paying her rint.”
“Och, murder!” says Pat, “it’s of that I repint,
And so, if you plaze absolution to say,
It’s a blessed thirteen that I’m willing to pay,
Or I’ll marry the widdy to make her atone;
Since ’twas her flesh I took, I’ll be bone of her bone.”

“You know that can’t be – you would cheat me O’Linn,
To compound a felony’s surely a sin;
And as to repintance, sure what will you say,
When the widdy accuses you at the last day?”
Says Pat, “Will your riv’rence answer me true,
When that time it shall come will the pig be there too?”
“He will,” said the priest, “all your guilt to make plain,
Cheek by jowl with the pig you will stand once again.”
“Then,” says Pat, “it’s all right, absolution or not,
For when that time comes I, an answer have got,
As the pig will be there, I have only to say,
‘Take your dirty ould pig’ – so, your riv’rence good day”

Tim Finigan’s Wake

Tim Finigan lived in Walker street,
A gentle Irish man, mighty odd,
He’d a beautiful brogue, so rich and sweet,
And to rise in the world he carried a hod;
But you see he’d a sort of tripling way,
With a love for poor liquor poor Tim was born,
And to help him through his work each day,
He’d a drop of the creatur’ each morn.

Whack, hurrah! Blood and ‘ounds! Ye sowl, ye!
Welt the flure, ye’re trotters shake!
Isn’t it the truth I’ve told ye?
Lots of fun at Finigan’s wake.

One morning Tim was rather full,
His head felt very heavy, which made him shake,
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull,
So they carried him home his corpse to wake;
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
And laid him out upon the bed,
With fourteen candles around his feet,
And a couple of dozen around his head

Whack, hurrah! Blood and ‘ounds! Ye sowl, ye!
Welt the flure, ye’re trotters shake!
Isn’t it the truth I’ve told ye?
Lots of fun at Finigan’s wake.

His friends assembled at his wake,
Missus Finigan called out for the lunch;
First they laid in tay and cake,
Then pipes and tobacky, and whiskey punch.
Miss Biddy O’Brien began to cry,
Such a purty corpse did ever you see?
Arrah! Tim avourneen, an’ why did ye die?
Och, none of your gab, sez Judy Magee.

Whack, hurrah! Blood and ‘ounds! Ye sowl, ye!
Welt the flure, ye’re trotters shake!
Isn’t it the truth I’ve told ye?
Lots of fun at Finigan’s wake.

Then Peggy O’Connor took up the job,
Arrah! Biddy, says she, ye’re wrong, I’m shure!
But Judy then gave her a belt on the gob,
And left her sprawling on the flure.
Each side in the war did soon engage,
‘Twas woman to woman, and man to man,
Shillelagh law was all the rage,
An’ a bloody ruction soon began.

Whack, hurrah! Blood and ‘ounds! Ye sowl, ye!
Welt the flure, ye’re trotters shake!
Isn’t it the truth I’ve told ye?
Lots of fun at Finigan’s wake.

Mickey Mulvaney raised his head,
When a gallon of whiskey flew at him;
It missed him, hopping on the bed,
The liquor scattered over Tim.
Bedad! He revives! See how he raises!
An’ Timothy, jumping from the bed,
Cries, while he lathers round like blazes,
Bad luck to yer souls! D’ye think I’m dead.

Whack, hurrah! Blood and ‘ounds! Ye sowl, ye!
Welt the flure, ye’re trotters shake!
Isn’t it the truth I’ve told ye?
Lots of fun at Finigan’s wake.

The Widow McCarthy by Samuel Lover

Oh, have you not heard of McCarty,
Who lived in Tralee, good and hearty?
He had scarce lived two score, when death
came to his door
And made a widdy of Mrs. McCarty.

Near by lived one Paddy McManus,
Why by the way was a bit of a genius;
At his trade he was good, cuttin’ figures of
wood,
Says he: I’ll go see the widdy McCarty.

Now Paddy, you know, was no ninny,
He agreed for a couple of guineas,
To cut out a stick the dead image of Micky,
And take it home to widdy McCarty.

As the widdy she’d sit by the fire
Every night before she’d retire,
She’d take the stick that was dead, put it
into bed,
And lay down by the wooden McCarty.

Now Pat wasn’t long to discover
That the widdy was wanting a lover;
He made love to her strong, and you’ll say
he wasn’t wrong,
For in three days he wed the widdy McCarty.

Their friends for to see them long tarried;
To bet Pat and the widdy they carried;
She took up the stick that was cut for Micky,
And under the bed shoved wooden McCarty.

In the mornin’ when Paddy was risin’
He wanted somethin’ to set the fire blazin’;
Says she: “If you’re in want of a stick, just
cut a slice off Micky,
For I’m done with my wooden McCarty.

Written by Samuel Lover.

Lanigan’s Ball

In the town of Athy one Jeremy Lanigan
Battered away ’till he hadn’t a pound.
His father died and made him a man again,
Left him a farm and ten acres of ground!
He gave a grand party to friends and relations
Who hadn’t forgot him when sent to the wall;
And if you just listen, I’ll make your eyes glisten
With the rows and the ructions of Lanigan’s Ball

Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Six long months doin’ nothin’ at all,
Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Learnin’ to dance for Lanigans’ Ball.
I stepped out and I stepped in again,
I stepped out and I stepped and I stepped in again,
Learin’ to dance for Lanigan’s Ball.

Myself, of course, got free invitations
For all the nice boys and girls I’d ask,
And in less than a minute the friends and relations
Were dancing away like bees round a cask.
Miss O’Hara, the nice little milliner,
Tipped me the wink to give her a call,
And soon I arrived with Timothy Glenniher
Just in time for Lanigan’s Ball.

Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Six long months doin’ nothin’ at all,
Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Learnin’ to dance for Lanigans’ Ball.
I stepped out and I stepped in again,
I stepped out and I stepped and I stepped in again,
Learin’ to dance for Lanigan’s Ball.

There was lashins of punch, and wine for the ladies,
Potatoes and cakes and bacon and tay,
The Nolans and Doolans and all the O’Gradys,
Were courtin’ the girls and dancin’ away.
Songs there were as plenty as water
From “The Harp that once thro’ Tara’s Ould Hall”
To “Sweet Nelly Gray” and “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter”
All singing together at Lanigan’s Ball.

Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Six long months doin’ nothin’ at all,
Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Learnin’ to dance for Lanigans’ Ball.
I stepped out and I stepped in again,
I stepped out and I stepped and I stepped in again,
Learin’ to dance for Lanigan’s Ball.

They were startin’ all sorts of nonsensical dances
Turning around in a nate whirligig:
But Julia and I soon scatthered their fancies,
And tipped them the twist of a rale Irish jig.
Och mavrone! ‘Twas she that as glad o’ me,
We danced ’till we thought the ceilin’ would fall.

Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Six long months doin’ nothin’ at all,
Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Learnin’ to dance for Lanigans’ Ball.
I stepped out and I stepped in again,
I stepped out and I stepped and I stepped in again,
Learin’ to dance for Lanigan’s Ball.

The boys were all merry, the girls were all hearty
Dancin’ away in couples and groups
When an accident happened – young Terence McCarty
He put his right foot through Miss Halloran’s hoops.
The creature she fainted and cried “Millia Murther!”
She called all her friends and gathered them all.
Ned Carmody swore he’s not stir a step further
But have satisfaction at Lanigan’s Ball.

Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Six long months doin’ nothin’ at all,
Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Learnin’ to dance for Lanigans’ Ball.
I stepped out and I stepped in again,
I stepped out and I stepped and I stepped in again,
Learin’ to dance for Lanigan’s Ball.

In the midst of the row, Miss Kerrigan fainted –
Her cheeks all the while – were as red as the rose –
Some of the ladies declareed she was painted
She took a small drop of potheen I suppose.
Her lover, Ned Morgan, so pow’rful and able,
When he saw his dear colleen stretched out by the wall,
He tore the left leg from under the table
And smashed all the china at Lanigan’s Ball.

Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Six long months doin’ nothin’ at all,
Six long months I spent in Dublin,
Learnin’ to dance for Lanigans’ Ball.
I stepped out and I stepped in again,
I stepped out and I stepped and I stepped in again,
Learin’ to dance for Lanigan’s Ball.

Oh boys, there was ructions –
Myself got a lick from big Phelim McHugh,
But I soon replied to his kind introductions,
And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo.
Old Shamus, the piper, had like to be strangled.
They squeezed up his pipes, chanters, bellows and all;
The girls in their ribbons, they got all entangled,
And that put an end to Lanigan’s Ball.

The Fox Hunt

The first morning of March in the year ’33
There was frolic and fun in our own country:
The King’s county hunt over meadows and rocks
Most nobly set out in the search of a fox.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullaloo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway boys! away, harkaway!

When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore,
Through arklow and Wicklow along the sea-shore;
There he brisked up his brush with a laugh and says he
“‘Tis mighty refreshing this breeze from the sea.”
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullaloo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway boys! away, harkaway!

With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way,
He led us by sunset right into Roscrea.
There he ran up a chimney and out of the top,
The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop
From their loud harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullaloo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway boys! away, harkaway!

“‘Twas a long thirsty stretch since we left the sea-shore,
but lads, here you’ve gallons of claret galore;
myself will make free just to slip out of view,
and take a small pull at my own mountain dew,”
So no more hullabaloo!
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullaloo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway boys! away, harkaway!

One hundred and twenty sportsmen went down
And sought him from Ballyland through Ballyboyne;
We swore that we’d watch him the length of the night.
So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullaloo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway boys! away, harkaway!

But the hills the re-echoed right early next morn
With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn,
And in spite of his action, his craft and his skill,
Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullaloo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway boys! away, harkaway!

When Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh,
For pen, ink and paper he called with a sigh;
And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil,
With these few dying words he declared his last will,
While we ceased Hullahoo! harkaway! hullaloo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway boys! away, harkaway!

Here’s to you, Mr. Casey, my Curraghmore estate,
And to you, young O’Brien, my money and plate,
And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs and cap.”
And of what he made mention they found it no blank,
For he gave them a check on the National Bank.

My Good Looking Man

Come, all you pretty maids, of courage brave and true,
I will teach you how to happy live, and avoid all troubles, too;
And if you live a wedded life, now plainly understand,
And don’t you ever fall in love with all good-looking men.

When I was sixteen years of age, a damsel in my prime,
I daily thought on wedded life, and how I’d be at the time;
I daily thought on wedded life, its pleasures I did scan,
And I sighed and sobbed both night and day, to get a nice young man.

My wish, it seems, too soon I got, for one Sunday afternoon,
At home from church I gaily tripped, I met a fair gossoon;
He looked so fine about the face, to win him I made a plan,
And that very day I set my cap for that good-looking young man.

Again, by chance, as out I stepped to take a pleasant roam,
I met this handsome gentleman, who wished to see me home;
I’d fain say no, but it was no use, to go with me was his plan,
So to my home I walked along with my good-looking man.

He said to me, as on we walked: My dear and only love,
If with me you’ll consent to wed, I will ever constant prove;
I’ll ever be a husband kind and do the best I can,
So my heart and hand I then did give to my good-looking young man.

The night was fixed for us to wed – he bid me have all cheer –
He pressed me to his breast saying: Oh my Mary dear!
He gently pressed me to his breast, saying : “Oh, my Mary dear!”
And there I tied that dreadful knot with that good-looking young man.

It was scarce a week, when married I was, one Sunday afternoon,
The day went by, the night came on, off went the honeymoon;
My gent walked out – so did I – for to watch him was my plan,
When soon a flashy girl I saw with my good-looking man.

At once a thought came in my head to entrap my faithless swain,
So quickly I did gain on him, and followed in his train;
It was then and there I heard him swear his love for her outran,
The closest ties for any maid – “Oh, what a nice young man!”

They kissed and toyed, and tales of love to her he then did tell,
Thinks I to myself, now is the time to serve your outright well;
He did not me at all espy, so to my home I ran,
And sat down there to anxiously wait for my good looking young man.

The clock was just striking ten, when my gentleman he walked in,
I gently said: My William, dear, where hast thou so long been?
I have been to church, my love, said he – Oh! this I could not stand,
So the rolling pin I did let fly at my good-looking young man.

I blacked his eyes, I tore his hair, in ribbons I tore his clothes,
I then took up the poker and laid it across his nose;
He just looked like a chimney sweep, as out the door he ran,
And never a lady loved again with my good-looking man.

Now, you married folks, take my advice, high and low degree,
When a rakish husband you do get, pitch into him like me;
When I found out I was deceived, it was my only plan
To disfigure the handsome countenance of my good-looking young man.

The Tipperary Christening

It was down in that place Tipperary,
Where they’re so airy, and so contrary,
Where they kick up the devil’s figarie,
When they christened the beautiful boy.
In comes the piper, sot thinking,
And a-winking, and a-blinking,
And a noggin of punch he was drinking,
And wishing the parents great joy.

When home from the church they came,
Father Tom and old Mikey Branigan,
And scores of as pretty boys and girls
As ever you’d wish to see;
When in through the door,
Hogan, the tinker, Lather and Lanagan,
Kicked up a row, and wanted to know,
Why they wasn’t asked to the spree.

Then the boy set up such a bawling,
And such a squalling and caterwauling,
For he got such a mauling,
Oh, that was the day of great joy.
Then the piper set up such a moaning,
And such a-droning, and such a-croning,
In the corner his comether was turning,
When they christened Dennis, the boy.

The aristocracy came to the part,
There was McCarty, light and hearty,
With Florence Bedelia Fogarty,
Who said that was French for a name;
Dionysius Alphonso Mulrononey,
Oh, so spooney and so looney,
With the charming Evangeline Mooney,
Of society she was the cream.

Cora Teresa Maud McCann,
Angelina Rocke, and Julia McCafferty,
Rignold Mormon Duke, Morris McGan,
And Clarence Ignatius McGurk;
Cornelius Horatio Flaherty’s wife,
Adolphus Grace and Dr. O’Rafferty,
Eve McLaughlin, and Cora Muldoon,
And Brigadier-General Burke.

They were dancing the polke-mazurka,
‘Twas a worker, not a shirker,
And a voice of Vienna, la Turker,
And the polke-redowa divine;
After dancing, they went to lunching,
Oh, some munching, and such crunching,
They were busy as bees at a lunching
With their coffee, tea, whiskey and wine.

They had all kinds of tea, they had Sho-song,
They had Ningnong and Drinkdong,
With Oolong, and Boolong, and Toolong,
And teas that were made in Japan;
They had sweetmeats, imported from Java,
And from Youver and from Havre,
In the four-masted steamer “Manarver”
That sails from beyond Hindoostan”
Romeo punch, snoball and sparrowgrass,
Patty D. Foy, whatever that means,
Made out of goose-liver and grease;
Red-headed duck, salmon and peas,
Bandy-legged frogs, Peruvian ostriches,
Bottled noix, woodcock and snipe,
And everything that would please.

After dinner, of course, there was speaking,
And hand-shaking, and leave-taking,
In the corners old mothers match-makin’,
And other such innocent sins;
Then they bid a good-by to each other,
To each mother, and each brother;
When the last rose, I thought I would smother,
When they wished the next would be twins!

A Cup O’ Tay (A Cup of Tea)

Och! Prate about your wine,
Or poteen, mighty foine,
There’s no such draught as mine,
From Ireland to Bombay!
And whether black or green,
Or divil a shade between,
There’s nothing I have seen
Wid a gintale cup o’ tay!

Whist! Hear the kettle sing,
Like birds in early spring;
A sup for any king
Is the darlint in the thray.
Ould cronies dhroppin’ in,
The fat ones and the thin,
Shure all their hearts I win
Wid a gintale cup o’ tay.

Wid whiskey punch galore
How many heads grow sore?
Shalalahs, too a score
Most beautifully play.
Wid all the hathin ways
Good luck to thim Chinaise,
Who sind us o’er the says
Such a gintale cup o’ tay!