Has crossed the Atlantic, poor Erin to sack,
And carry Hibernia away on their back.
There’s a rumpus in Ireland by night and by day,
Old women and girls are afraid out to stray;
Cheer up and be happy on St. Patrick’s day,
The Fenians are coming,—get out of the way!
Pop goes the weazel, and shoot goes the gun,
While over the mountains the Fenians do run;
As a regiment of soldiers did after them jog,
Four hundred and fifty fell into a bog!