He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,
He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin—
“’Twill pass for a feather,” says Brian O’Linn!
Brian O’Linn had no shirt to his back,
He went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack.
He puckered a meal-bag under his chin—
“They’ll take it for ruffles,” says Brian O’Linn!
Brian O’Linn had no shoes at all,
He bought an old pair at a cobbler’s stall,
The uppers were broke and the soles were thin—