My grandsire beat a drum so neat, his name was Darby Kelly O,
No lad so true at rat tat too, at roll-call or reveille 0!,
When Marlboro's name first raised his fame my grandy beat the point of war;
At Blenheim he, at Ramilie made ears to tingle near and far;
For with his wrist he'd such a twist the girls would laugh you don't know how,
They chaffed and cried and sighed and died to hear him beat his row dow dow.
A son he had, which was my dad as tight a lad as any, O!
You e'er would know though you would go from Chester to Kilkenny O!
when great Wolfe died, his country's pride, to arms my dapper father beat,
Each dale and hill remembers still how loud, how long, how strong, how neat;
With each drumstick he had the trick, the girls would laugh, you don't know how;
Their eyes would glisten, their ears would listen to hear him beat his row dow dow!
Yet ere I wed, ne'er be it said, but that the foe I dare to meet,
With Wellington, old Erin's son, to help to make them beat retreat!
King Arthur once, or I'm a dunce, was called the hero of the page,
But what was he to him we see, King Arthur of the modern age!
For, by the powers, from Lisbon's towers their trophies bore to grace his brow;
He made Nap prance right out of France with his English-Irish row dow dow.