To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,
He’s only a prince in a small way,
And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall—
Oh, he’d never “do for Galway.”
Ye think the Blakes
Are no great shakes—
They’re all his blood relations;
And the Bodkins sneeze
At the grim Chinese,
For they come from the Phenaycians;