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!