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, wid thatch and all complate, With a hole at top thro’ which the smoke so graceful did retrate; Hurrah for the Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. His walls so cold were cover’d with the divil a thing for show, Except an ould shilaleh, which had knock’d down many a foe, And there ould Barney sits at ease, without a shoes or hose, And quaffs his noggin of potteen to warm his big red nose, Like a fine ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. At Donnybrook his custom was, to be at every fair, For tho’ he’d seen a threescore years, he still was young when there; And while the rich they feasted him, he oft 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. But och! mavrone! once at a row, ould Barney got a knock, And one that kilt him――’case he couldn’t overget the shock; They laid him out so beautiful, and then set up a groan, Och! Barney, darlint, jewel dear, why did ye die? och hone! Then they wak’d this Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. Tho’ all things in their course 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 ould Irish Gintleman, the boy of the oulden time. ―――― THE OLD AND NEW CANTAB. There’s a fine old song for fine old gents, with fine old wine elate, Of a fine old, etcetera――the rest I needn’t state; And _Punch_ unto that fine old air new-fashioned words would mate, Of the fine old Cantab as he was before this change of late―― The fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time! His rooms their range of ballet-girls and running-horses showed, And a fox-brush, meant to indicate that up to hounds he rode; There at vingt-un or loo he’d sit, until the cocks they crowed, Nor ever thought of how to pay the various ticks he owed―― This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time! From Eton or from Harrow he came cramm’d with longs and shorts, An ambition to drive tandem, and a taste for fruity Ports; And his hardest work was playing, till he deafened half the Courts, Concertos on the cornet, in keys of different sorts―― This fine old Cantab as he was, all in the olden time.