With a hole at top thro’ which the smoke so graceful did retrate;
Hurrah for the Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
His walls so cold were cover’d with the divil a thing for show,
Except an ould shilaleh, which had knock’d down many a foe,
And there ould Barney sits at ease, without a shoes or hose,
And quaffs his noggin of potteen to warm his big red nose,
Like a fine ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.
At Donnybrook his custom was, to be at every fair,
For tho’ he’d seen a threescore years, he still was young when there;
And while the rich they feasted him, he oft among the poor,