Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung,
Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow;
Shout for it, Ulster men,
Till the bogs quake again!
Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho!
Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining!
While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig,
So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining
Around the potato of proud Blarneygig!
While the plant vegetates,