From a broadside at the Bodleian Library, Oxford:

(There is a similar version here.)


THE HAIRY BUCK CAT

My name it is Bill; I once kept a mill
Near the town of Clonmell, I will never deny.
I had a buck cat; 'twas heavy and fat.
He would kill a rat at the wink of an eye.
He was hairy and strong; his whiskers was long.
This nation I'd travel without any hat
To get satisfaction out of the damn'd rascal
Who strangled my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

To tell you in plain, my cat he was tame.
A saucer of cream he would lap every day,
And then in the evening, to keep him from screeching,
A ha'porth of bread and a small cup of tea.
My cat he was wise; he'd go off in disguise
To hunt for some mice or a monstrous rat,
But a neighbour called Tom I suspect very strong
For killing my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

Indeed, Billy Dillon, you are an old villain
For to accuse me of killing your buck,
But by all the she-goats from Kerry to Moat,
I'll have satisfaction before I am shuck.
By this, that, and t'other, and Belzebub's mother,
And Cain's eldest brother, and his grandfather's hat;
By Lord Norbury's wig, and the price of my pig,
I never had a hand in the death of your cat.

'Twas from Dolly's bray my cat went astray
On that mem'rable day, the 12th of July.
Being in want of some meat, the truth for to state,
He went hunting some rats at a village hard by.
They did him surround, left him dead on the ground,
With his fine Orange sash and Cromwellian hat.
My curse on the robber, be he drunk or sober,
That strangled my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

By the red-shirted knave—Garibaldi, I mean—
And the King of Sardinia, may he have the gout.
May an African bug build a nest in his lug.
With the tic-doloreux, may his grinders fall out.
By every old trooper, and big-bellied souper
That preaches for bacon—oh, don't they get fat?—
By King Bill's dirty breeches, that both stinks and itches,
I never had a hand in the death of your cat.

By the great Bog of Allen, and big river Shannon,
And the heather that grows on the high hill of Howth;
By Sarsfield the brave, that lies in his grave,
And the sweet little razor that cut Castlereaght's throat;
By cursed Martin Luther, and Old Nick his tutor,
And Cromwell the villain, who thousands lay flat;
By Queen Anne's petticoat, and that a big oath,
I never had a hand in the death of your cat.

Indeed, Tommy Kelly, you are a fine fellow.
You may curse and swear till you're black in the pate.
The truth I must tell, you know it right well.
Your creed you would sell for a lump of fat meat.
By the Peltus M'Cue, and the great Pandeen Rue,
I'll warm your hide with the tail of a rat.
Regardless of moans, I'll break all your bones
For killing my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

By Wellington's nose, and the bellows that blows
The fire where old Harry and Cranmer doth sit,
In the regions, I mean, where tyrants doth reign
In Lucifer's region with old Billy Pitt;
By old Bishop Knox, John Calvin and Fox,
And the cabbage-bred pdp, Geo. Adair and his hat;
By the virgin Queen Bess, and the priest-hunting mess,
I don't care a ---- for you or your cat.

A somewhat different version, from a broadside at the National Library of Scotland:

BUCK CAT

My name it is Bill, and I once kept a mill
Near the town of Clonmell, I will never deny.
I had a Buck Cat that was hairy and fat,
And would worry a rat in the wink of an eye.
He was heavy and strong; his whiskers were long.
This Nation I'd travel without any hat
To get satisfaction out of the vile rascal
That strangled my grandmother's hairy Buck Cat.

It is from Dollybray, my cat went astray,
On that memorable day, the 12th of July,
Where he went to ensnare—the truth I declare—
Some harmless rats that were living close by.
When he came to the ground, his match there he found.
They did him surround, and paid him for his chat.
I left him in his gore and I saw him no more,
But the loss I deplore of my beautiful Cat.

Indeed, Billy Dillon. you are a great villain,
For to accuse me sure of killing your Buck.
By all the she-goats from Kerry to Moat,
I will have satisfaction before I am shook.
You sorely ill used me, and likewise abused me.
Indeed such an action I would scorn as that.
Believe me, dear neighbours, he's done his endevours
To take my character for killing his Cat.

By the eternal wars, and by all the Jack Tars,
In England, Ireland, and Scotland also;
By Toby the Pig, and Lord Norberry's wig,
I ne'er done the deed which you very well know.
By Napoleon the brave, who lies in his grave,
And by Sarsfield who gave all his foes tit for tat;
By Lepocorn Russell, and Queen Anne's dirty bustle,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

By King Harry the brute, who polluted the truth,
And Cranmer to boot, the inventor of lies;
By Calvin and Knox, and the infamous Fox,
That made Protestant Saints before ever they died;
By Neddy the get, the Apostolic pet,
And his own sister Bet, who had many a brat;
By the vile Reformation that caused desolation,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

By Jimmy O'Brien, who hung scores in his time—
To swear by the same now indeed I'm not loath;
By old Billy Pitt, to swear, I'm not fit;
By Lord Castlereagh who cut his own throat;
By Martin and Luther, and old Nick his tutor,
Or Cromwell the villain who thousands laid flat;
By Harry and Bess, and the whole of the rest,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

By the Four Courts of Dublin, and Nelson's great pillow,
By all the Jackasses, that is a big oath;
By all the John Bulls that smashed many skulls
On Waterloo plains where the battle was fought;
By Brian the brave that beat all the Danes,
Shoved them into the sea just like a dead rat;
By "Buckshot" the knave, who would us enslave,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

I gave satisfaction about the transaction.
I vow and declare the truth I did speak.
Bill won't believe me, which sorely does grieve me.
My curse on his Cat both early and late.
By the bellows of h—ll, and Peg Trentham's bell,
Or Usker's big flail shat leveled them flat;
By King Bill's dirty breeches that stinks and itches,
I never had a hand in the death of your Cat.