I’ll sing you a good old song, made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman, who had an old estate; And who kept up his old mansion at a bountiful old rate, With a good old porter to relieve the old poor at the gate. Like a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time. His hall, so old, was hung around with pikes, and guns, and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, which had stood against old foes, And ’twas here “his worship” sat in state, in doublet and trunk hose, And quaff’d his cup of good old sack to warm his good old nose. Like a fine old, &c. When winter old, brought frost and cold, he open’d house to all, And though threescore and ten his years, he featly led the ball, Nor was the houseless wanderer e’er driven from his hall, For while he feasted all the great he ne’er forgot the small. Like a fine old, &c. But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years roll’d swiftly by, And autumn’s falling leaf proclaim’d, the old man--he must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, gave up life’s latest sigh, And mournful friends stood round his couch, and tears bedim’d each eye. For the fine old, &c. The Fine Old Irish Gentleman. I’ll sing you a dacent song that was made by a Paddy’s pate, Of a raal ould Irish gintleman, who had a fine estate, Whose mansion it was made of mud, with thatch and all complate, With a hole at top, through which the smoke so graceful did ratrate. Hurrah for the ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. His walls so could, were cover’d wid the devil a thing for show, Except an ould shillelah, which had knock’d down many a foe, And there ould Barney sat at ease, and without shoes or hose, And quaff’d his noggin of poteen to warm his big red nose. Like a fine ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. To Donnybrook his custom was to go to every fair, And though he’d seen a few score years, he still was young when there; And while the rich they feasted him, he still, among the poor, Would sing, and dance, and hurl, and fight, and make the spalpeens roar. Like a raal ould Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. 19 But och, mavrone! once at a row ould Barney got a knock, And one that kilt him, ’cause he couldn’t get o’er the shock, They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan, Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did you die? och, hone! Then they waked this Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time.