She runneth from Cork to Dublin straight,
She plays with the stones, she mocks the sands,
Or like a tilted waggon stands.
I’m on the Mail, I’m on the Mail!
I am where I would ever sail,
With the dust before and the dust behind,
And driving straight before the wind,
If a storm should come, and disturb my ride,
What matter! what matter! I can jump inside.
I love, O! how I love to drive,