It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!
The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,
Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!
An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,
I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!
So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,
"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon."
"You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,
He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,
"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,—the featherbed,"—says he,