Of all the towns in Ireland, Kilkenny for me.

In the town of Kilkenny there runs a clear strame,

In the town of Kilkenny there lives a pretty dame,

Her lips are like roses and her mouth much the same.

Like a dish of fresh strawberries smother’d in crame.

Her eyes are as black as Kilkenny’s large coal,

Which through my poor bosom has burnt a large hole;

Her mind, like its river, is mild, clear, and pure;

But her heart is more hard than its marble I’m sure.

Kilkenny’s a pretty town and shines where it stands,