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He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
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For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
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Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
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Of our antediluvial zoo,
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    (Chorus) Messrs. Billing and Coo. 
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           Noah's larks, good as noo. 
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He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
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Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
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When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
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And he caught his death of fusiliers,
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    (Chorus) With his rent in his rears. 
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           Give him six years. 
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'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
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But look out for his missus legitimate!
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When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
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Won't there be earwigs on the green?
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    (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green, 
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           The largest ever you seen. 
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Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!
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Then we'll have a free trade Gaels' band and mass meeting
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For to sod the brave son of Scandiknavery.
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And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
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Along with the devil and Danes,
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    (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes, 
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           And all their remains. 
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And not all the king's men nor his horses
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Will resurrect his corpus
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For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
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    (bis) That's able to raise a Cain. 
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