From Hooley's Opera House Songster (New York: Dick & Fitzgerald, 1864), page 58:

Mickey Magee; or, the Tail of my Coat.
(Now first published complete.)
Written by John F. Poole, and sung by W. J. Florence, G. C. Charles, Fred. May, and others.
Air—“Cupid took lodgings in Dublin.”

“Cupid took lodgings in Dublin,
  And that to my sorrow I know;
For, faith! my poor heart he was throublin,
  Whin he tickled me with his bow.”

I'll thry to rehearse you a ditty,
  If you will but listen to me;
I'm from Dublin's own famous big city,
  My name, faix, is Mickey Magee.
I at Donnybrook often was seen, sir,
  Bekase I was fond of the sport;
But not a man on the whole green, sir,
  Dare tread on the tail of my coat."

CHORUS: Whack fol de rol, etc.

I learned my reading and writing,
  At Ballyragget, where I wint to school;
It was there, too, I first took to fighting,
  With the schoolmaster, Misther O'Toole;
He and I there had many a scrimmage,
  Bad luck to the copy I wrote;
But not a gossoon in the village
  Dare tread on the tail of my coat.

I an illegant hand was at courting,
  For lessons I took in the art;
Till Cupid, that blackguard, while sporting,
  A big arrow sent smack through my heart
Miss O'Connor, I lived straight forninst her,
  And tindher lines to her I wrote;
Who dar say a black word aginst her,
  Why, I'd tread on the tail of his coat.

A bog-trotter, one Pether Mulvaney,
  He tried for to stale her away;
He had money, and I hadn't any,
  So a challenge I sint him one day.
Next morning we met at Kilhealy,
  The Shannon we crossed in a boat,
There I lathered him with my shillaly,
  For (the thief of the world) he trod on the tail of my coat.

Soon my fame spread abroad through the nation,
  Folks flocked for to gaze upon me;
All cried out without hesitation,
  “Och, you're a fighting man, Mickey Magee.”
I fought with the Finegan faction,
  We'd bate all the Murphys afloat;
If, inclined for a row or a ruction,
  (I'd just go through the fair with my bit of blackthorn in my fist, and I’d ax thim in the politest manner)
  To tread on the tail of my coat.

Irish necter, I know how to make it,
  It's hot, strong, and sweet whisky punch;
And the doctor he tould me to take it
  Every half-hour by way of a lunch.
But if you with your whisky mix wather,
  And try to cram that down my throat
'Pon me conscience! I'll give you a quarther
  To jump on the tail of my coat.

(Encore verses to this song, by Fred. May, may be found in “Fred. May's” Comic Songster.)