[Lyric] Patricks Arrival (Brooke & John McLoughlin)

You've heard of St. Denis of France
Who was never much for to brag on
You've heard of St. George and his lance
Who killed the old heathenish dragon
The saints of the Welshmen and Scots
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 a pavin' stone mounted
He beat the steamboat by a mile
Which mighty good sailin' was counted
Says hе, "The salt water, I think
Has made mе unmerciful thirsty
Fetch me a flagon to drink
To wash down the mulligrubs, burst ye
A drink that's fit for a saint."

He preached then with wonderful force
The ignorant natives a teaching
With pints he 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, "Why for you, me old buck
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 practice each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightfully mellow
That day with a barrel of beer
He was drinking away with abandon
Says Patrick, "It's grand to be here
I drank nothing to speak of since landing
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
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 still flowed o'er the brim

Next day said the host, "It's a fast
And we've nothing to eat but cold mutton
On Fridays who'd make such repast
Except an un-Christianlike glutton?"
Said Pat, "Stop this nonsense, I beg
What you tell me is nothing but gammon."
When the host brought he down the lamb leg
Pat ordered it turned into 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
Ordered them all into the Atlantic
And 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 it must come to a finish
Because all the liquor is gone