Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!
Isn't Erin's glory,
By sword and pen
Of wicked men,
Made a dismal story?
"Success, avourneen!" cried the jolly friar,
"An' may yir whistle, 'lanna! never tire!
Now for a toast, my boys, or sentiment,
An' here is one from me with your consent:
'A saddle prickly as a porcupine,