Or, The Hibernio-German-American England-Hater

“Germanis ipsis Germaniores”

Attind ye all me wonthrous tale, an’ Oi will tell to you,

Of how an honest Oirishman into a Proosian grew.

‘Twas nigh on twinty year’ ago Oi lift me native bog

To seek in these majestic States a place to earn me grog.

Sure, wurrk was aisy found fur me, fer Oi’m a clever man;

Oi earnt so much Oi soon cud buy me whiskey by the can.

Wid half a dozen other Micks, a merry, dhrinkin’ crew,

Oi used to hang around shebeens an’ currse Ould England blue!

Jist why Oi hate the Englishmen, Oi don’t remimber quoite,

But Jimmy Dugan’s grand-dad says they’ve ne’er used Oireland roight.

Sure all they iver done fer us was civilise our land,

An’ we’ve no use fer sober laws, but all fer fraydom shtand!

How glad will be the fateful day whin England last draws breath,

An’ good Ould Oireland shall be free—to dhrink hersilf ter death!

Now comes the cruel, cruel warr, wid Germans runnin’ loose.

Sure, here’s the toime to make a shtir, an’ give some more abuse!

Us Oirish have no love fer Dutch, but side wid Germany

Because she hates Ould England most as fiendishly as we!

We know der Kaiser’d treat us wurrse thin England iver done,

But sure, if we used England roight we’d lose our sweetest fun!

There’s somethin’ in the Oirish hearrt thot niver bows to rules;

At jooty’s call we tache our sons sedition in the schools.

Last night the Germans hereabouts all gather’d in a hall,

Wid German flags above the stage, an’ Kaisers on the wall.

Oi don’t know what they wanted, but so far as Oi could see,

They mere hocked der Kaiser and enjoy’ “noothrality”.

They all denounc’d the Prisident an’ currs’d the Yankee laws

Fer bein’ too un-noothral loike to hilp the German cause.

Thin they shtarted afther England, an’ me hearrt bate quick wid proide

As about “foul British perfidy” they babbled an’ they lied.

Oi thought we Oirish cud invint the rankest Billingsgate,

But wonthrous arre the fishy yarrns thim Dutchmen kin relate!

Me frinds what had come wid me was so mov’d wid martial ire,

They cluster’d round the rusty shtove to argue an’ perspire.

Oi grew so pathriotic thot I tuk me hat in hand

An’ shouted “Hoch der Kaiser, and das dear ould Vaterland!”

Bedad, we’ll lick thim Britishers within a fortnight sharrp,

An’ jine on one thriumphant flag the aigle an’ the harrp!

Thin all began to fraternise; McNulty and von Bohn—

O’Donovan and Munsterberg, von Bulow an’ Malone.

In Bacchic bonds our pact we seal’d; in harrmony serayne

We sang at once “Die Wacht am Rhein” an’ “Wearin’ av the Grane”.

Ould von der Goltz pick’d up a brogue; in Dutch young Dooley sang;

Mid Prussian an’ Hibernian shtrains the ancient rafthers rang!

Now all at once a magic seem’d to creep into me bones—

Me whiskey-mellow’d Oirish voice burst forth in Prussian tones!

Oi felt a sthrange sinsation, and in fancy seem’d to see

lnstad of dear ould Shannon’s banks, the gently rippling Spree—

No, not the Spree ye think Oi mane, but that which softly flows

Through glorious Deutschland’s grassy leas, where warr an’ kultur grows.

Ochone! Ochone! Where am Oi now? What conflict am Oi in?

Do Oi belong in Dublin town or back in Ould Berlin?

A week ago me son was borrn; his christ’nin’s not far off;

Oi wonther will I call him Mike, or Friedrich Wilhelm Hoff?

‘Tis hard indade fer one loike me to know jist where he’s at;

Oi wonder if me name is Hans or if it shtill is Pat?

But let me bore ye all no more; the proper course is clear:

Oi’ll slanther England all Oi dare, an’ rayson niver hear.

A loyal „noothral” Oi shall be in all me wurrds an’ worrk,

An’ niver shpake excipt to praise the Dutchman an’ the Turrk!