Christy Moore - Patrick's Arrival lyrics

Patrick's Arrival (William Maginn) You've heard of St. Denis of France. He never had much for to brag on. You've heard of St. George and his lance Who k**ed d'old heathenish dragon. The Saints of the Welshmen and Scot Are a couple of pitiful pipers And might just as well go to pot When compared to the patron of vipers: St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear. He sailed to the Emerald Isle On a lump of pavin' stone mounted. He beat the steamboat by a mile Which mighty good sailing was counted. Says he, "The salt water, I think, Has made me unmerciful thirsty; So bring me a flagon to drink To wash down the mullygrups, burst ye, Of drink that is fit for a Saint." He preached then with wonderful force The ignorant natives a teaching, With wine washed down each discourse, For, says he, "I detest your dry preaching." The people in wonderment struck At a pastor so pious and civil, Exclaimed, "We're for you, my old buck, And we'll heave our blind Gods to the divil, Who dwells in hot water below." This finished, our worshipful man Went to visit an elegant fellow Whose practise each cool afternoon Was to get most delightful mellow. That day with a barrel of beer, He was drinking away with abandon. Say's Patrick, "It's grand to be here. I drank nothing to speak of since landing, So give me a pull from your pot." He lifted the pewter in sport. Believe me, I tell you, it's no fable. A gallon he drank from the quart And left it back full on the table. "A miracle!" everyone cried And all took a pull on the Stingo. They were mighty good hands at that trade And they drank 'til they fell yet, by Jingo. The pot it still frothed o'er the brim. Next day said the host, "It's a fast, And I've nothing to eat but cold mutton. On Fridays who'd make such repast Except an unmerciful glutton?" Said Pat, "Stop this nonsense, I beg. What you tell me is nothing but gammon." When the host brought down the lamb's leg, Pat ordered to turn it to salmon, And the leg most politely complied. You've heard, I suppose, long ago, How the snakes, in a manner most antic, He marched to the county Mayo And ordered them all into the Atlantic. Hence never use water to drink The people of Ireland determine With mighty good reason, I think, For Patrick has filled it with vermin, And snakes and such other things. He was a fine man as you'd meet From Fairhead to Kilcrumper, Though under the sod he is laid, Let's all drink his health in a bumper. I wish he was here that my gla** He might by art magic replenish, But since he is not, why alas! My old song must come to a finish Because all the drink is gone.