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!