With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

At evening returning, as homeward he goes,

His heart, soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,

From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,

Cries, “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while.

To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that,

A fine baby cries, “How d’ye do, Father Pat?”

With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?

“Bless the country!” says I, “that gave Patrick his birth,