Now, Giibbon has told the story of old,
Of the Fall of the Roman Empire,
But I would recall the rise an' the fall
Of a man of the name of McGuire.
He came to our town as a man of renown,
And peace was, he said, his desire,
Still he'd frequently state what would be the sad fate
Of the man who molested McGuire.
Well, we all were afraid of this quarrelsome blade,
An' we told him to draw near the fire,
An' laughed at his jest, tho' it wasn't the best,
An' swore there's no man like McGuire.
An' when he came up with the neighbours to sup,
His friendliness all would admire
And he'd have the best bed, for we'd sleep in the shed,
for fear of insulting McGuire.
But Macgilligan's Dan who's a rale fightin' man,
Said: "Of all this tall talkin' I tire,
I'll step in an see whyever should he
Be called always Fightin' McGuire,
I'll step in and say, in a casual way,
That I think he's a thief an' a liar.
Then I'll hit him a clout, and unless I misdoubt,
That's a way of insulting McGuire."
Then onward he strode to McGuire's abode,
His glorious eye shootin' fire,
An' we thought as he passed we had all looked our last
On the man who insulted McGuire;
Then we listened with grief while we heard him called thief
An' abused as a rogue an' a liar;
Oh! we all held our breath, for we knew it was death
To give any chat to McGuire.
Well, the row wasn't long, but 'twas hot an' 'twas strong
An' the noise it grew higher an' higher,
Then it stopt! an' we said, "Oh, begorra, he's dead
He's been kilt out an' out be McGuire!
Then out like a thrush from a hawthorn bush
Came something in tattered attire,
And after it fled the man we thought dead
The man who malthreated McGuire.
'Twas Macgilligan's son, the victory won,
An' we crowded around to admire
The bowld-hearted boy who was first to destroy
The Yoke of the Tyrant McGuire.
An' altho' it's not true, we all said that we knew
From the first he was only a liar,
An' we'd all had a mind to attach from behind
That cowardly scoundrel McGuire.
