BALLAD. (Fait, honey, in Ireland, I'd find out…)

Fait, honey, in Ireland, I'd find out a flaw In each capias, each batt'ry and action; For dere—oh my soul—satisfaction is law, And, what's better, fait law's satisfaction.

When to cut your friend's trote dat affronts you's the word, From dat argument none will be shrinking; For we clear knotty points by the point of the sword, And make flaws large enough with our pinking.

And great is the pleasure it yield, While our seconds are hard at our back, And boldly we both take the field, Wid our tierce and our carte—sa, sa, whack!

Arrah troth were a jolman pursued at his heel By a constable, fait, or a baily, To be sure in three minutes the taef would not feel O'er his sconce a tight bit of shelaly.

Then for actions and bonds, and dat charming long list, Of returns dat in law cut a figure, Oh we make out returns by a turn of the wrist, And draw bonds by the pull of a trigger.

And great are the pleasures it yield, When our seconds are hard at our back, When boldly we both take the field, Wid our tierce and our carte—sa, sa, whack!