Whillaloo! If they droive us to foighting,
'Tis ourselves who will lead 'em a dance,
Till, loike the Cork bhoys, they're deloighting,
Back again to their homes to advance!
No longer in beating such rebels
We'll take than in baiting a bull.
How they'll squake, in effeminate trebles,
When Ulster's battalions are full!
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
We trate 'em as loving relations?