Not fit for the licker
You give to cows to chew and suck.
Helps pass the time
Makes me think of thon things
As they pass their auld muck.
Now they’re out in the fields
With a touch of the green.
St. Patricks likes pints of
That beer that’s gone green..
Passes time with St. Brigid
Oh she of the milk.
With her on his lap
oh how they do quilt.
Talking and joshing and fooling around.
They might get slung out
As the sun goes to sit down.
To pull out his fiddle
And brandish a tune.
The little dog barks
As in comes the moon.
To celebrate Patrick and Brigid herself
A comely fine girl amongst all this fine wealth.
Collected around her at Licker Ó Splits
Along with musicians and munchers
And as the day spread for Patrick
Is brought to a close
Like a ring on your finger
As plain as your nose.
The licker can wait til’ i’ve had all me greens
My spuds, all the bacon, them roasties and beans.
The pudding, the custard, Pavlova and cream.
I’ll sit myself down for ten winks i will dream.
But I’ll go to the licker much later I think
And there they will pour me the finest of drink.
I’ll lift this auld ale to kiss my dry lips.
I’ll notice St. Brigid, oh her with the hips.
I’ll nod to St. Patrick and he may nod back.
Life is real strange, I just breathe for the craic.
If you find me at twelve just bent round a post
Hangin’ like a shirt just made for a ghost.
Ten sheets to the wind with some change on the ground.
Handle me real gentle when you lift me on down.
Jesus I’ve tanked up,
Red Deisel’s me name.
My air break’s kaput as I’ve rolled down the drain.
St. Patrick and Brigid said they’d give me a lift
But here I am now, I’m down in the . . .
Shift me, oh shift me and take me on home.
And there I will lie like a fool all alone.