There are quare things done between twelve and one
In the hollows behind the park.
There are gentlemen robbed and brass nails scrobbed
In the bushes after dark.
But the worst of all beyond human recall
Concerns the statue of Gough.
Twas a wicked act and a terrible fact
His bollix they tried to blow off.
Neath the horses big prick a dynamite stick
Our gallant hero did place.
For the cause of our land with a light in his hand
Bravely his foe did he face.
Then without showing fear he threw himself clear
Expecting to blow the pair.
But he nearly went crackers, all he got was the knackers,
And made the poor stallion a mare.
All his tactics were wrong for his prick was too long,
For this horse was much more than a foal.
It would answer him better, this dynamite setter,
The stick to shove up in his hole.
To make headline news by lighting a fuse,
Thus setting all Dublin aghast,
With his pants all tattered - and his asshole shattered
And his guts blown away by the blast.
And shortly before, some patriots whore
Had painted poor Gough for a farce,
In hideous red from his tail to his head
And his bollix right back to his arse.
For this is the way our heroes today
Are challenging England's might,
With a stab in the back and a midnight attack
On a horse that cant even shite.
[Dublin - oral tradition]
[Update 2012: at least that's what I thought when I originally posted this a thousand years ago. Thanks to that wonderful Dublin blog Come Here to Me I now know it was composed by Vincent Caprani]