William Harrison Ainsworth

The Rapparees

Air “The Groves of the Pool”

LET the Englishman boast of his Turpins 
                            and Sheppards, as cocks of the walk,
His Mulsacks, and Cheneys, and Swiftnecks – 
                            it’s all botheration and talk;
Compared with the robbers of Ireland, 
                            they don’t come within half a mile,
There never were yet any rascals, 
                            like those of my own native isle.

First and foremost comes REDMOND O’HANLON, 
                            allowed the first thief of the world,
That o’er the broad province of Ulster, 
                            the Rapparee banner unfurled;
Och! he was an elegant fellow, 
                            as ever you saw in your life,
At fingering the blunderbuss trigger, 
                            or handling the throat-cutting knife.

And then such a dare-devil squadron 
                            as that which composed REDMOND’S tail!
Meel, Mactigh, Jack Reilly, Shan Bernagh, 
                            Phil Galloge, and Arthur O’Neal;
Shure never were any boys like ‘em, 
                            for rows, agitation, and sprees;
Not a rap did they leave in the country, 
                            and hence they were called Rapparees.

Next comes POWER, the Great Tory of Munster, 
                            a gentleman born every inch,
And strong JACK MACPHERSON of Leinster, 
                            a horse-shoe who broke at a pinch;
The last was a fellow so lively, 
                            not death e’en his courage could damp,
Tor as he was led to the gallows, 
                            he played his own “march to the camp.”
  
PADDY FLEMING, DICK BALF, and MULHONI, 
                            I think are the next on my list,
All adepts in the beautiful science 
                            of giving a pocket a twist;
JEMMY CARRICK must follow his leaders, 
                            ñould PURNEY who put in a huff,
By dancing a hornpipe at Tyburn, 
                            and bothering the hangman for snuff.

There’s PAUL LIDDY, the curly-pate Tory, 
                            whose noddle was stuck on a spike,
And BILLY DELANY, the “Songster” 
                            we never shall meet with his like;
For his neck by a witch was anointed, 
                            and warranted safe by her charm,
No hemp that was ever yet twisted 
                            his wonderful throttle could harm.

And lastly, there’s CAHIR NA CAPPUL, 
                            the handiest rogue of them all,
Who only need whisper a word, 
                            and your horse will trot out of his stall;
Your tit is not safe in your stable, 
                            though you or your groom should be near,
And devil a bit in the paddock, 
                            if CAHIR gets hould of his ear.

Then success to the Tories of Ireland, 
                            the generous, the gallant, the gay!
With them the best Rumpads of England 
                            are not to be named the same day!
And were further proof wanting to show 
                            what precedence we take with our prigs,
Recollect that our robbers are TORIES, 
                            while those of your country are WHIGS!