We ’ave ‘eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,
It’s safest to let ’er alone:
For ‘er sentries we stand by the sea an’
the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars!—an’
don’t we get blown!)
Take ‘old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,
An’ flop round the earth till you’re
dead;
But you won’t get away from the tune that they
play
To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.
(Poor beggars!—it’s
’ot over’ead!)
Then ‘ere’s
to the sons o’ the Widow,
Wherever,
’owever they roam.
‘Ere’s
all they desire, an’ if they require
A
speedy return to their ’ome.
(Poor beggars!—they’ll
never see ’ome!)
There was a row in Silver Street that’s near
to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an’ English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an’ it lasted on till
dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison’s, the last
forninst the Park.
For it was:—“Belts,
belts, belts, an’ that’s one for you!”
An’ it was “Belts,
belts, belts, an’ that’s done for you!”
O buckle an’ tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison’s down
to the Park!
There was a row in Silver Street—the regiments
was out,
They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an’
we answered “Threes about!”
That drew them like a hornet’s nest—we
met them good an’ large,
The English at the double an’ the Irish at the
charge.
Then it was:—“Belts
. . .”
There was a row in Silver Street—an’
I was in it too;
We passed the time o’ day, an’ then the
belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm
A Freeman’s Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
O it was:—“Belts
. . .”
There was a row in Silver Street—they sent
the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn’t
care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o’ them was Liffey mud an’ half
was tatthered clo’es.
For it was:—“Belts
. . .”
There was a row in Silver Street—it might
ha’ raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an’ nobody
knew how;
‘Twas Hogan took the point an’ dropped;
we saw the red blood run:
An’ so we all was murderers that started out
in fun.
While it was:—“Belts
. . .”
There was a row in Silver Street—but that
put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin’ to his next: “‘Twas
never work o’ mine!”
We went away like beaten dogs, an’ down the
street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn’t tell the
bhoys were sorry for him.
When it was:—“Belts
. . .”
There was a row in Silver Street—it isn’t
over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to
get;
’Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I
lie:
There was a row in Silver Street—begod,
I wonder why!
