THE PARLIAMENTARY BALLYHOOLY.
Air—"Ballyhooly."
There's a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country's joy,
But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me,
He often takes command in a fury-spouting band
Called the "Ballyhooly" Parliamentary Army.
At Donnybrook's famed fair he might shine with radiance rare,
A "Pathriot" he's called, and may be truly,
It is catching, I'm afraid, for when he is on parade
There seems scarce a sober man in "Ballyhooly."
Chorus.
Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know,
Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me,
Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate
In the "Ballyhooly" Parliamentary Army.
The Spayker, honest soul, finds they're quite beyond control,
Discussion takes a most extinded radius,
It's about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer,
But the "bhoys," they never seem to find it "tadyious."
And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way,
That is in being ructious and unruly,
If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight,
Faith they howl him out of court in "Ballyhooly."
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
They're supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State,
Which one and all they do their best to injure;
I have said their talk's as clear as the stalest ginger-beer,
And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger.
The bhoys are not alone, for in sorrow one must own
The young Tories are as noisy and unruly,
And the Rads they rave and rail till one longs to lodge in gaol
The intemperate brigade of "Ballyhooly."
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
There's a moral to my song, and it won't detain yez long,
Of Party spirit e'en the merest "nip" shun.
It's poison, that is clear, Ballyhooly "ginger-beer,"
As ye'll own when I have given the prescription.
You take heaps of Party "rot," spirit mean, and temper hot,
Lies, blasphemy, and insult; mix them duly;
For sugar put in salt, bitter gall for honest malt,
Faith, they call it "Statesmanship" in "Ballyhooly."
Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.
Encore Verse.
Since you're kind enough to crave just another little stave,
I'll explain the furious ferment that now leavens
A tipple once so sound is just Party spite all round,
And of course my Ballyhooly is St. Stephen's.
'Twill be very long before you will wish to cry "Encore!"
To the row that makes our Parliament unruly;
For good sense would put a stop on the flow of Party "Pop"
That makes a Donnybrook of "Ballyhooly."
Chorus.
Whililoo, hi, ho! 'Tis a huge mistake, ye know,
To let ructions and recriminations charm ye.
If they don't abate their hate, they'll bring ruin on the State,
Will the Ballyhooly Parliamentary Army.