The pipes were squealin’ an Irish reel
For Ireland’s son and daughter,
Lad and lass were steppin’ out
With shout and whoop and laughter!

Oh glory be to the drone of the pipes,
The mellow pipes of Erin!
My grandsires they were Irish Kings
And played the pipes with feelin’.

Of hornpipes, reels and jogs and flings
The balmy, perfumed airs was full,
When all at once across the field
There galloped a bellowin’ bull!

The women ran, the men clumb trees, 
The pipers flew with the pipers,
While I heeded less the bull
Than Saint Patrick heeded the vipers!

Hold fast, says I, I’ll tackle the bull!
For me have nor fear, nor pity!
It's a bard of old Ireland now you’ll hear
When I sing you bull a ditty!

I eyed the bull and the bull eyed me
While I sang him a strophe of my makin’!
Says he “If I’m mad, it’s your songs so bad
That made me made and quakin’!

And then with zest I sang my best
O’ songs o’er which I’d cried,
And all the saddest made him the maddest
‘Til with a quake he died!

And now, alas, I must say what I would wish,
Oh wish unsaid,
The trees and the lads who heard my lay,
They also were dead!