Oh I went to school to Darby Tool,
Who had been a soldier, I was told;
His talk of wars, of drums, and scars,
Came over me when nine years old.
Then I thought of drums instead of sums,
Shillelagh being my writing pen;
My only books being outside crooks,
My only joys being fighting men.
Then disdaining brogues, I crossed the bogs,
The little girls would cry when me they’d spy
“Ah, here’s Larry Moore, the Irish boy,
The nice, the neat, the sweet, complete,
The handsome, fine, Kilkenny boy.”
When older grown, the girls ochone!
About their hearts they twisted me,
‘Till Sergeant Shea, he came out one day,
When, by the powers! He listed me;
Then Betty Byrne, she left the churn,
And Kate O’Neill, faith I’ll go bail,
She’ll break her heart for leaving me.
Then in this plight, a soldier tight,
I marched as stout as any boy,
The fair to melt, the foe to pelt,
None equalled the Kilkenny boy;
The manly straight, the clean, complete,
The beautiful Kilkenny boy.
But Sergeant Shea, he died one day,
A bullet laid him to the floor;
And the same poltogue who spoiled his brogue
A Sergeant made of Larry Moore.
And it’s when the peace bid fighting cease,
For the girls, ochone! I had a few.
Who thought to tease, but none could please,
For ’tis herself, she has the pelf,
And ’tis myself can spend it joy,
She cried, “Ochone! You’re all my own,
My thundering fine Kilkenny boy,
Oh! you’re my brother of a boy, you’re my jewel joy,
You’re my own, my fine Kilkenny boy.”