Though all things in their coarse must change, and seasons pass away, Yet Irish hearts of oulden time were just as at this day. Each Irish boy he took a pride to prove himself a man, To serve a friend and bate a foe, it always was the plan Of a raal old Irish gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. The Fine Old Dutch Gentleman. I’ll sing you now a Dietchen song ’bout Hans Yon Krouplegheet, Vot keept a lager bier saloon up in de Bowery shtreet, He eat de shwinepeefe, shpeek, un slough, un efery kind of meat, Un I shvear mit mine goot grashus, pon top de people, so much as a barrel of sourcrout, un two puchels of lager bier, efery morning he would eat! He vas a fine old Dietchen shentlemen von of the pestest kind. By de fireshtove in his bier saloon efery morning he uoold shtand, Mit a bottle of schnapps down by his side, un a glass up in his hand, Un by himself he trinks dis toast, “Ich lieben die Vaderland,” Un midout you could Dietsche vershter, for he vold nix Inglish gasprochen ven he’d say, “Spechlebecks von-grossen-dunder un blitzen nut-de-swimegrahdle skipoupens-die-dobbleshm,” you couldn’t nix undershtand. Dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de goot olt kind. His nose vas red ash a beetle, yaw, by dunder, dat ish drue, His mouth pout fourdeen inches wide, his eyes vere black ash plue. He pelongs mit de Freesangerbund, un he vas a Turner too, Un politics makes him nix difference, but ven you comes mit de Maine liquors law to dake avay his lager bier, den, py dam, dat vas someding new, To dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de pestest kind. 20 Dis fine old Dietchen shentlemen he vent to bed drunk efery night, Un somedimes ven dere vas coming rount elections, mit de udder fellers he’d fight, Un slouck dem on de koup mit a double-barrel’d powie knife, but I don’t tink dat vas rite, For ven vun of dem peeples haf his head preak’d into his nose all ofer his face, un vas nearly drownded mit a big stick, I tell you somedings rite avay shust now dat vas a sorry sight, To dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, von of de goot olt kind. But von time dere comed some drouples, un he fight mit all his main, Dough he vas kilt von two ash six eight couple of times, he shumps up un fites again, Dill his hed vas all splitted open down pack, un den de blood comes down like rain; Un py and py come dere de coroner mit de shury, un sit on him apout dwenty-two hours ash tree-quarters, un shqueeze all de preth out of his pody, den dey prings in a verdigrass, vot he dies from prandy and vater on de prain, Does dis fine old Dietchen shentleman, de subject of dis song. Over the Left.