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You've heard of St. Denis of France
He never had much for to brag on
You've heard of St. George and his lance
Who killed d'old heathenish dragon
The Saints of the Welshmen and Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers
And might just as well go to pot
When compared to the patron of vipers:
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear
He sailed to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of pavin' stone mounted
He beat the steamboat by a mile
Which mighty good sailing was counted
Says he, "The salt water, I think
Has made me unmerciful thirsty;
So bring me a flagon to drink
To wash down the mullygrups, burst ye
Of drink that is fit for a Saint."

He preached then with wonderful force
The ignorant natives a teaching
With wine washed down each discourse
For, says he, "I detest your dry preaching."
The people in wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil
Exclaimed, "We're for you, my old buck
And we'll heave our blind Gods to the divil
Who dwells in hot water below."

This finished, our worshipful man
Went to visit an elegant fellow
Whose practise each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightful mellow
That day with a barrel of beer
He was drinking away with abandon
Say's Patrick, "It's grand to be here
I drank nothing to speak of since landing
So give me a pull from your pot."

He lifted the pewter in sport
Believe me, I tell you, it's no fable
A gallon he drank from the quart
And left it back full on the table
"A miracle!" everyone cried
And all took a pull on the Stingo
They were mighty good hands at that trade
And they drank 'til they fell yet, by Jingo
The pot it still frothed o'er the brim

Next day said the host, "It's a fast
And I've nothing to eat but cold mutton
On Fridays who'd make such repast
Except an unmerciful glutton?"
Said Pat, "Stop this nonsense, I beg
What you tell me is nothing but gammon."
When the host brought down the lamb's leg
Pat ordered to turn it to salmon
And the leg most politely complied

You've heard, I suppose, long ago
How the snakes, in a manner most antic
He marched to the county Mayo
And ordered them all into the Atlantic
Hence never use water to drink
The people of Ireland determine
With mighty good reason, I think
For Patrick has filled it with vermin
And snakes and such other things

He was a fine man as you'd meet
From Fairhead to Kilcrumper
Though under the sod he is laid
Let's all drink his health in a bumper
I wish he was here that my glass
He might by art magic replenish
But since he is not, why alas!
My old song must come to a finish
Because all the drink is gone

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