It is pity I have,
And that is a truth,
For the Trinity men
And the men of Maynooth.
The men of Maynooth are the like o' the rooks,
With their solemn black coats an' their serious looks.
An' the Trinity men are no better at all,
For when they're not studyin' deep in their books
Their only diversion is batting a ball,
An' that is a truth.

If myself now were there
My heart would be broke,
For the smell o' the earth
Or a whiff of peat smoke.
The weight of their learning would sure have me bet,
I'd sell all their books for an old fishing net,
And pawn their professors for Danny's young horse.
Now glory to goodness, I'd pine and I'd fret
For the mountainy wind an' the smell o' the gorse,
An' that is a truth.

It's the old ones that's there,
They'd ask a poor lad
To be searching his mind
For what knowledge he had.
For learning in poaching they'd give me small thanks,
Or for tricks to catch trout hidden under the banks.
There's much I could tell them of grouse and of hare,
But still they'd not bid me to enter their ranks,
An' faith! I'm not wishful to be with them there,
An' that is a truth.