None can love like an Irishman

The turban'd Turk, who scorns the world, May strut about with his whiskers curl'd, Keep a hundred wives under lock and key, For nobody else but himself to see; Yet long may he pray with his Alcoran, Before he can love like an Irishman. Like an Irishman, like an Irishman, Before he can love like an Irishman.

The gay monsieur, a slave no more, The solemn Don, and the soft Signor, The Dutch mynheer, so full of pride, The Russian, Prussian, Swede beside; They all may do what e'er they can, But they'll never love like an Irishman. Like an Irishman, like an Irishman, But they'll never love like an Irishman.

The London folks themselves beguile, And think they please in a capital stile; Yet let them ask, as they cross the street, Of any young virgin they happen to meet, And I know she'll say, from behind her fan, That there's none can love like an Irishman. Like an Irishman, like an Irishman, That there's none can love like an Irishman.