From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.
In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,
Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;
While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,
Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.
More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn’t sticky,
But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.
Oh, ’twould cure a rheumatic,—he’d jump up ecstatic,
At “Tatter Jack Welsh” upon Bellewstown Hill.
Oh, ’tis there ’neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,