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 Charge our gallant leader cry, On like Lyons then we fly; Blood and thunder, foes knocked under, Then huzza for a victory.

Then who so merry as we in a camp Battle over live in cover, Care and his cronies are forced to tramp, And all is social pleasure. Then we laugh we quaff we sing, Time goes gaily on the wing; Smiles of beauty, sweeting duty. Then each private is a king.

Saint Patrick was a gentleman, And came of decent people; In Dublin town he built a church. And he put upon’t a steeple; His father was O’Callaghan, His mother was O’Brady; His Aunt was an O’Saugnessy, And his uncle an O’Grady. Then success to bold St Patrick’s fist, He was a saint so clever; He gave the snakes and toads a twist And banished them for ever.

There’s no a mile in Ireland’s isle, Where the durty varment musters, Where’er he put his dear fore foot He murder’d them in clusters.