106
Sunday up the River.
It is not brandy, it is not wine,
It is Jameson's Irish Whisky:
It fills the heart with joy divine,
And it makes the fancy frisky.
All other spirits are vile resorts,
Except its own Scotch first cousin;
And as for your Clarets and Sherries and Ports,
A naggin is worth a dozen.
I have watered this, though a toothful neat
Just melts like cream down the throttle:
But it's grand in the punch, hot, strong, and sweet!
Not a headache in a bottle.
It is amber as the western skies
When the sunset glows serenest;
It is mellow as the mild moonrise
When the shamrock leaves fold greenest.
Just a little, wee, wee, tiny sip!
Just the wet of the bill of a starling!
A drop of dew for the rosy lip,
And two stars in the eyes of my darling!
