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| MY NAME it is Nell, right candid I tell, | |
| And I live near a dell I ne’er will deny, | |
| I had a large drake, the truth for to spake, | |
| My grandfather left me when going to die; | |
| He was merry and sound, and would weigh twenty pound, | 5 |
| The universe round would I rove for his sake. | |
| Bad luck to the robber, be he drunken or sober, | |
| That murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake. | |
| |
| His neck it was green, and rare to be seen, | |
| He was fit for a queen of the highest degree. | 10 |
| His body so white, it would you delight, | |
| He was fat, plump, and heavy, and brisk as a bee. | |
| This dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow, | |
| He could fly like a swallow, or swim like a hake, | |
| But some wicked habbage, to grease his white cabbage, | 15 |
| Has murdered Nell Flaherty’s beautiful drake! | |
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| May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt, | |
| That a ghost may him haunt in the dark of the night. | |
| May his hens never lay, may his horse never neigh, | |
| May his goat fly away like an old paper kite; | 20 |
| May his duck never quack, may his goose be turned black | |
| And pull down his stack with her long yellow beak. | |
| May the scurvy and itch never part from the britch | |
| Of the wretch that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake! | |
| |
| May his rooster ne’er crow, may his bellows not blow, | 25 |
| Nor potatoes to grow—may he never have none— | |
| May his cradle not rock, may his chest have no lock, | |
| May his wife have no frock for to shade her backbone. | |
| That the bugs and the fleas may this wicked wretch tease, | |
| And a piercing north breeze make him tremble and shake. | 30 |
| May a four-years’-old bug build a nest in the lug | |
| Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake. | |
| |
| May his pipe never smoke, may his tea-pot be broke, | |
| And to add to the joke may his kettle not boil; | |
| May he be poorly fed till the hour he is dead. | 35 |
| May he always be fed on lobscouse and fish oil. | |
| May he swell with the gout till his grinders fall out, | |
| May he roar, howl, and shout with a horrid toothache, | |
| May his temple wear horns and his toes carry corns, | |
| The wretch that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake. | 40 |
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| May his dog yelp and howl with both hunger and cold, | |
| May his wife always scold till his brains go astray. | |
| May the curse of each hag, that ever carried a bag, | |
| Light down on the wag till his head it turns gray. | |
| May monkeys still bite him, and mad dogs affright him, | 45 |
| And every one slight him, asleep or awake. | |
| May wasps ever gnaw him, and jackdaws ever claw him, | |
| The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty’s drake. | |
| |
| But the only good news I have to diffuse, | |
| Is of Peter Hughes and Paddy McCade, | 50 |
| And crooked Ned Manson, and big-nosed Bob Hanson, | |
| Each one had a grandson of my beautiful drake. | |
| Oh! my bird he has dozens of nephews and cousins, | |
| And one I must have, or my heart it will break. | |
| To keep my mind easy, or else I’ll run crazy, | 55 |
| And so ends the song of my beautiful drake. | |
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