Timothy Murphy kept the pledge
For nearly fourteen year,
But Christmas Eve he felt so bad,
He got out on the beer;
Oh, he came home like a roaring lion
Filled up with rum and gin,
For he’s like a Bengal tiger
When he gets a mouthful in.
There’s not a porch for half a mile
That came in Murphy’s sight,
But felt his hob-nailed bluchers
When he let out that night;
And sashes tumbled ’round the floor
And cats at doors did scrape,
For they knew their time on earth was short
When Timothy rounds the cape.
He broke lamps and cups and crockeryware,
The pots and soup tureens,
He ate everything that was in the house,
Pigs’ heads and boiled crubeens;
Now there’s not a sound eye in the block,
From Murphy’s heavy sledge,
And the town is all on crutches now,
Since Murphy broke the pledge.
If Murphy don’t get thirty days,
And I hope and pray he will,
There’ll be humps on undertaker’s backs
From all the crowds he’ll kill;
And the beaver hats, they won’t hold out
To bury all the dead,
If Timothy ties his braces ’round
To paint the city red.
The neighbourhood is on their knees
In meditation deep.
In hopes he’ll get the summer
Through the iron bars to peep;
For if not, we’ll go to Nagle’s Hill
And leave our snug abode,
For I’d sooner face a unicorn
Than Murphy with a load.