My own land of frolic and fun;
For all sorts of mirth and diversion,
Your like is not under the sun.
Bohemia may boast of her polka,
And Spain of her waltzes talk big;
Sure, they are all nothing but limping,
Compared with our ould Irish jig.
Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,
Imported from Spain and from France;
And a fig for the thing called the polka—