Arrah, sons of green Erin, I’ll give you a song,
The shillelagh’s my theme, and I won’t keep you long;
And if with attention you’ll honour the tune,
To the words you’re as welcome as the roses in June.
The Irish shillelagh, och! Faith it’s no joke,
Is nearly akin to the old English oak;
Their relationship no one will doubt, sure, who knows
The striking similitude felt in its blows.
In the land of potatoes, I mane no offence,
The shillelagh first sprouted, its pride and defence;
By freedom, ’twas planted, it flourished and grew,
And the fame of this sapling, is known the world through.
The shillelagh’s an Irishman’s joy and delight,
His companion by day, his protection by night;
And though rough in appearance, you must allow,
That it’s mighty engaging when seen in a row.
Let a bumper then, sons of Hibernia go round,
The toast I propose in your heart’s will be found;
Here’s “The land of Shillelagh! And long may the sod
By the firm root of friendship and freedom be trod.”