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Arrah come, sons of Erin, I’ll give you a song; The Shilelah’s my theme, of course ’twill not be long; And if with attention you’ll honour the tune, To the words you’re as welcome as roses in June, Fal de ral, de ral la, la, la, la.

The Irish shilelah, och! faith its no joke, Is nearly a kin to the old English oak; The relationship no one will doubt, sure, who knows, The striking similitude felt in their blows.

In the land of potatoes, I mean no offence, The shilelah first sprouted, its price and defence; By freedom ’twas planted, it flourish’d and grew, And the fame of this sapling is know the world thro’.

The shilelah’s an Irishman’s joy and delight; His companion by day, his protection by night; And though rough in appearance, you all must allow, That its mighty engaging when seen in a rowe.

That thief of the world, Bonaparte declares, He’d fain be at the head, Sirs, of Irish affairs; About writing you wrongs should a foreigner prate, Och, let your shilelah fall whack on his pate.

The French gasconaders have long made a boast, They’ll Old England invade on the Irishman’s coast; Should they dare from your shamrock to rifle a sprig, Och, show the blackguares you can handle a twig.

Let bampers, then, sons of Hibernia, go round, The toast I propose, in your hearts will be found;