"His body fell down, and his soul it went to Hell…"

And when it got below it had a strange tale to tell.

Fol-de-roddy-rye, fol-de-roddy-rye, fol-de-roddy-rye,
there's whiskey in the jar-O!

They way we sang it in the wee dank North was:

One Sunday morning as I was going to Mass.
I met a bloody Orangeman and killed him for his pass;
I killed him for his pass, my boys, and sent his soul to hell;
And when it got below it had a strange tale to tell.

And "stout Orange boy" was the Devil's last line.

Ah, the warm memories of nostalgia. This must be what Proust was jabbering on about...