There’s ne’er a mile in Ireland’s Isle where the dirty vermin musters;
Where’er he put his dear forefoot he murdered them in clusters.
The toads went hop, the frogs went flop, slapdash into the water,
And the beasts committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter.
There’s a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
‘Twas St Patrick himself, sure, that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland;
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland…
Saint Patrick was a gentleman, who through strategy and stealth
Drove all the snakes from Ireland, here’s a drink to his health!
But not too many drinks, lest we lose ourselves and then
Forget the good Saint Patrick, and see them snakes again!