I met wid ould Mulvaney an' he tuk me by the hand,
Sez he:—'Fwhat kubber from the front, an' will the Paythans stand?'
'O Terence, dear, in all Clonmel such things were never seen,
They've sint a Rigimint to war widout a Fiel' Canteen!
'Tis not a Highland Rigimint, for they wud niver care—
Their corp'rils carry hymn-books an' they opin fire wid prayer—
'Tis not an English Rigimint that burns a Blue Light flame—
'Tis the Eighteenth Royal Irish, man, as thirrsty as they're game!'
An' Terence bit upon his poipe an' shpat behin' the door.
'Tis Bobbs', sez he, 'that knows the thrick av makin' bloody war.
Ye say they go widout their dhrink?' 'An' that's the trut' 'sez I.
Thin Hiven help the muddy Kheyl they call an Akazai!
I lay wid thim in Dublin wanst, an' we was Oirish tu,
We passed the time av day an' thin the belts wint whirraru:
I misremember fwhat occurred but, followin' the shtorm,
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
They're rocks upon parade, but O in barricks they are hard—
They're ragin' tearin' devils whin there's ructions on the kyard;
An' onless they've changed their bullswools for baby's socks, I think
They'd rake all Hell for grandeur—an' I know they wud for dhrink!
An' Bobbs has sint thim out to war widout a dhrop or dhrain—
'Tis he will put the jildy in this dissolute campaign:
They'd fight for frolic half the year, but now their liquor's cut
The wurrd'll go:— "Don't waste your time! The bay'nit an' the butt!"
Six hundher' stiffin throats in front—tu hundher' lef' behind
To suck the pickins av the cask whiniver they've a mind!—
I wud not be the Paythan man forninst the sungar wall,
Whin those six hundher' gentlemin projuce the long bradawl!
They'll all be dhry—tremenjus dhry—an' not a dhram to toss
Divils of Ballydavel, holy saints av Holy Cross;
An' holy cross they all will be from Carrick to Clogheen,
Thrapeesin' afther naygur–log' widout a Field Canteen.
Will they be long among the hills? My troth they will not so—
They're crammin' down their fightin' now to have ut done an' go;
For Bobbs the Timp'rance Shtrategist has whipped thim on the nail' -
'Tis cruel on the Oirish but—ut's Murther on the Kheyl!'