Room, room, room, room, room for th’express, at length here it comes;
Limerick’s our own, Lim’rick’s our own, be it known to all grums.
Hark! Hark! Hark! The guns of the towering, ring it in peals.
We’ll drink round the bonfires.
Huzza, huzza to the bells, to our conquering army loud prais, let’s sing:
"And now monsieur Frenchman have at you next spring."
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