Six whacking big chairmen, with togs queerly dress’d,
Supported poor Pat to his last place of rest;
His hod, which he styled the best hod in the world,
(On whose top hung his jacket, like a flag that’s unfurled,)
His cap, boots, and shovel, in a trophy was bound,
And the spalpeens all join’d in the “hubbaboo” sound;
But no more, sure, the boys his loud “hollo” will fix,
Nor the buildings resound with, “Paddy, more bricks!
A little water!—more mortar!
Hollo, Pat, hollo!”