Paddy MacShane/Paddy MacShane

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PADDY MACSHANE.

Tune—‘ Sprig of shillelah.'

If my own botheration don't alter my plan,
I'll sing seven lines of a tight Irishman,
⁠Wrote by cld Biily Shakespeare of Ballyporeen,
He said while a babe I lov'd whisky and pap,
That I mewled and puk'd in my grandmother's lap;
She joulted me hard just to hush my sweet roar,
When I slipp’d through her fingers down whack on the floor,
⁠What a squalling I made sure at Ballyporeen.

When I grew up a boy, with a nice shining face,
With a bag at my back, and a snail-crawling pace,
⁠Went to school at old Thwackum's at Ballyporeen.
His wig was so fusty, his birch was my dread,
He learning beat out ’stead of into my head.
Master Macshane, says he, you're a great dirty dolt,
You've got no more brains than a Monaghan colt;
You're not fit for our college at Ballyporeen.

When eighteen years of age, was teas'd and perplext
To know what I should be, so a lover turned next,
⁠And courted sweet Sheelah of Ballyporeen.
I thought I'd just take her to comfort my life,
Not knowing that she was already a wife,
She ask'd me just once that to see her I'd come,
When I found her ten children and husband at home,
⁠A great big whacking chairman of Ballyporeen.

I next turned a soldier, I did not like that,
So turn'd servant, and liv'd with great Justice Pat,
⁠A big dealer in p'ratoes at Ballyporeen.
With turtle and venison he lin'd his inside,
Eat so many fat capons; that one day he died
So great was my grief, that to keep spirits up
Of some nice whisky cordial I took a big sup,
⁠To my master's safe journey from Ballyporeen.

Kick'd and toss'd so about like a weathecock vane,
I pack'd up my awls, and I went back again,
⁠To my grandfather's cottage at Ballyporeen.
I found him poor soul! with no legs for his hose,
Could not see through the spectacles put on his nose;
With no teeth in his head, so death cock'd up his chin;
He slipp'd out of his slippers and faith I slipp'd in
⁠And succeeded poor Dennis of Ballyporeen.