There’s the gentle Barry (Cornwall won’t marry
With rhyme at all) famed for sweet minstrelsy,
And that rare old thinker, the whisky drinker,
Brave Father Prout—ould Irish Mahony,
Blockhead and blockheart who loves not Lockhart,
Singing the brave old song of chivalry;
But of those brave brothers, above all others
Bold Barry Lyndon! turn our hearts to thee.
Eheu, fugaces! e’en younger faces
No more will gather ’neath thy old roof-tree—