Ye Sons of Old Ireland
Ye sons of Ireland I'm sorry to hear,
There is no money stirring this present New Year;
We thought we'd live well if markets were down;
We could eat and drink better when pork was three pound.
Bonaparte taught some men for to ride a fine horse
That some time ago couldn't ride a jackass.
"By the silver of my whip!" was their oath then in town;
"By the nails of my brogues!" since Boney is down.
Our gentry who fed upon turtle and wine
Must now on wet lumpers (1) and salt herring dine;
Their bellies that swelled with Napoleon's renown
Will grow flat like air bags since Boney is down.
There is an English song very similar to this - in fact, I suspect that this is the same song with a mild reworking. I know I had a recording of Ewan MacColl singing it, but damned if I can find it.