Starting with the lyrics provided by *#1 PEASANT* I made the slight adjustments to fit the performance by Brooke & John Mcloughlin:
You've heard of St. Denis of France.
Who never was much for to brag on.
You've heard of St. George and his lance
Who killed the old heathenish dragon.
The Saints of the Welshmen and Scots
Are a couple of pitiful pipers
And might just as well go to pot
When compared to the patron of vipers:
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear.
He sailed to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of a pavin' stone mounted.
And beat the steamboat by a mile
Which mighty fine sailing was counted.
Said he, "The salt water, I think,
Has made me unmerciful thirsty;
Fetch me a flagon to drink
To wash down the mullygrups, burst ye,
A drink that's fit for a Saint."
He preached then with wonderful force
The ignorant natives a teachin',
With pints he washed down each discourse,
Said he, "I detest your dry preaching."
The people in wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaimed, "We're for you, me old buck,
We'll heave our blind Gods to the divil,
Who dwells in hot water below."
This finished, our worshipful man
Went to visit an elegant fellow
Whose practise each cool afternoon
Was to get most delightfully mellow.
This day with a barrel of beer,
He was drinkin' away with abandon.
Said Patrick, "It's grand to be here.
I've had nothin' to speak of since landin',
Give me a pull from your pot."
He lifted the pewter in sport.
Believe me, I tell you, it's no fable.
A gallon he drank from the quart
And left it back full on the table.
"A miracle!" everyone cried
All took a pull on the Stingo.
They were mighty good hands at that trade
They drank 'til they fell yet, by Jingo.
The pot still flowed o'er the brim.
Next day said the host, "It's a fast,
And we've nothing to eat but cold mutton.
On Fridays who'd make such repast
Except an unchristianlike glutton?"
Said Pat, "Stop this nonsense, I beg.
What you tell me is nothin' but gammon."
When the host he brought down the lamb leg,
Pat ordered it turned into salmon,
And the leg most politely complied.
You've heard, I suppose, long ago,
How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
He marched to the county Mayo
Ordered them all into the Atlantic.
And never use water to drink
The people of Ireland determine
With mighty good reason, I think,
For Patrick has filled it with vermin,
And snakes and such other things.
He was as fine a man as you'd meet
From Fairhead to Kilcrumper,
Though under the sod he is laid,
Let's all drink his health in a bumper.
I wish he was here that my glass
He might by art magic replenish,
But since he is not, why alas!
My old song it must come to a finish
Because all the liquor is gone.