| Patrick was a Gentleman
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| He ame from daycent people
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| He built a church in Dublin town
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| And on it put a steeple
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| His father was a Gallagher
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| His mother was a Grady
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| His aunt was an O’Shaughnessy
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| His uncle was a Brady
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| The Wicklow hills are very high
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| And so is the hill of Howth sir
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| But there’s a hill much higher still
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| Much higher than them both sir
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| On top of this high hill
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| St Patrick preached a sermon
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| Drove the frogs into the bogs
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| And banished all the vermin
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| There’s not a mile of Eireann’s Isle
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| Where dirty vermin musters
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| But there he put his dear fore-foot
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| And murdered them in clusters
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| The frogs went hop and the toads went pop
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| Slapdash into the water
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| The snakes committed suicide
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| To save themselves from slaughter
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| 900,000 reptiles blue
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| He charmed with sweet discourses
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| Dined on them in Killaloe
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| On soups and second courses
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| Where blind worms crawling in the grass
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| Disgusted all the nation
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| Down to hell with a holy spell
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| He changed their situation
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| No wonder that them Irish lads
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| Should be so gay and frisky
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| Sure St Pat he taught them that
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| As well as making whiskey
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| No wonder that the Saint himself
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| Should understand distilling
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| His mother kept a sheebeen shop
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| In the town of Enniskillen
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| Was I but so fortunate
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| As to be back in Munster
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| I’d be bound that from that ground
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| I never more would once stir
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| There St Patrick planted turf
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| Cabbages and praties
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| Pigs galore, mo grá, mo stóir
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| Altar boys and ladies |