Tim Rafferty lived in Mulberry Street, A gentleman born in Limerick bog; He'd a brogue on his tongue that was a treat, And a loving heart; for, he loved his grog. One night he gave a grand party and spree, At the house of a friend, Biddy Mulvay; A great big forty-foot cellar, in Avenue B: If I rightly guess, 'twas Patrick's Day.
CHORUS: Whack! blood an ouns, the boys were frisky, The girls so free, light, and hearty; Making love, and drinking whiskey, Plenty of fun at Rafferty's party.
There was Murphy Boyle and Paddy McCastor, Shoughnessy's brother, from sweet Antrim: With a postage stamp on his eye for a plaster, Hagerty, the fiddler, and Timothy Flynn; The women (God bless 'em) there was Peg Smith, Sweet Judy Malone and Moll McCarthy, Paddy Dougherty's wife, a neat tidy bit, And piper McCann, to make up the party.
After talking over the events of the day, Praising the beauties of Mother Nature: Pipes and tobacco, of course, by the way, And drinking a noggin of the creature; The floor was cleared, the fiddle began-- In a jig they soon were prancing; By the "powers of Moll Kelly," 'twas rare fun, To see a room full of tailors dancing.
Upon the table was laid a grand supper, Real Irish turkey, caught in the sea; Corn beef and cabbage, skellians and butter, And sturabout with new milk and whey; "Blood and thunder and turf," says Pat McCastor, With such grub, who couldn't be hearty? It would water the eyes of John Jacob Astor, "Hould yer whist," says Boyle, 'tis Rafferty's party.
About two in the morn, the party was over; Rafferty lay asleep on a trunk; Sure, divil a one of them! all was sober, But piper McCann, who was blind drunk; Tim Mulkeaghy was carried home, on a shutter, By Mick Malone and Pat McCafferty; And every inch of the way, he would mutter: We'll make a Brigadier private of Tim Rafferty.