The parson boasts of mild ale,
The squire of old October,
But little their boasts avail
If guests trudge homewards sober.
To drink's my dear delight,
With boon boys and good liquor;
The squire is a thirsty wight,
But nought can quench the vicar.

CHORUS. -- So turn the kilderkin up,
In winter and in summer,
Go cool thyself with a cup,
Or warm thee with a rummer.

Och, Tady, would you be told
Where souls may soon be merry,
Then follow your foot, be bold,
The Harp's the house in Derry:
For Pat Macshane's the host,
A right good lad by nature,
And, true as a finger post,
He points still to the crature.

CHORUS. -- So mount your Limerick wig,
Be nate my joy, and proper,
And give them a song and jig,
And drink your thirteenth copper.