[Tune. The hounds are all out, &c.]
1.
Of St. George, or St. Bute, let the poet Laureat sing,
Of Pharaoh or Pluto of old,
While he rhymes forth their praise, in false, flattering lays,
I'll sing of St. Tamm'ny the bold, my brave boys.
2.
Let Hibernia's sons boast, make Patrick their toast;
And Scots Andrew's fame spread abroad.
Potatoes and oats, and Welch leeks for Welch goats,
Was never St. Tammany's food, my brave boys.
3.
In freedom's bright cause, Tamm'ny pled with applause,
And reason'd most justly from nature;
For this, this was his song, all, all the day long:
Liberty's the right of each creature, brave boys.
4.
Whilst under an oak his great parliament sat,
His throne was the crotch of the tree;
With Solomon's look, without statutes or book,
He wisely sent forth his decree, my brave boys.
5.