That powder and shot make men swallow their bile—
So, hurrah for the glory of Erin's green isle!
If they ask for your leader, the land's sword and shield,
At least none can say that he fled from the field.
He kept a whole skin—for the service of Rome;
So he fix'd his headquarters in quiet at home.
They might just as well hunt for the head of the Nile,
While he reckon'd his beads for St Patrick's green isle.
If beggars on horseback will ride—to Clontarf;
If tailors will caper with truncheon and scarf,