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The dust of some is Irish earth, Among their own they rest.

Old Dublin City there is no doubtin' Bates every city upon the say. 'Tis there you'd hear O'Connell spoutin' And Lady Morgan making tay. For 'tis the capital of the finest nation, With charmin' pisintry upon a fruitful sod, Fightin' like devils for conciliation, And hatin' each other for the Love of God.