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,