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izquierdaThe School At Killaloederecha
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Well, I happened to be born at the time they cut the corn,
Quite contagious to the town of Killaloe;
Where to teach us they'd a schame, and a French Monsieur he came
To instruct us in the game of "parlez vous"
I've one father, that I swear, but he said I had a père.
And he struck me when I said it wasn't true;
And the Irish for "a jint, " or the French for ' half a pint"
Faith, we learned it in the school at Killaloe.

You may talk of "Boneyparty, you may talk about Descartes"
or any other party, and comment deportez vous"
We learned to sing it "aisy," that song, the Marsellaisy.
"Boolong. Toolong. the continong, " we learned at Killaloe.

"Mais oui," Monsieur would cry. ' Well, of course you can. " says I.
"Non, " "no, I know, " says I with some surprise;
When a boy, straight up from Clare, heard his mother called a "mère,"
He gave Monsieur his fist between his eyes.
Says Monsieur with much alarm. "Go and call the jonny darm."
"There's no such name. " said I, "about the place;"
"Comment? " he made reply, "Come on yourself, " says I.
And I scattered all the features of his face.

Oh. boys, there was the fun, you should see him when t'was done.
His eye-balls one by one did disappear:
And a doctor from the South took some days to find his mouth.
Which had somehow got concealed behind his ear.
Then he swore an awful oath, he'd have law agin us both,
And then he'd lave both Limerick and Clare;
For he found it wouldn't do, to teach French at Killaloe,
Unless he had a face or two to spare.

To the magistrate he went, And a lot of time he spent.
Says the magistrate, "Begorra I'm perplexed"
For a fellow who, you see, spells whiskey O-D-V,
You never know what he'll be up to next.
Then nothin' more was said, Monsieur went home to bed
And mixed no more in Killaloe affairs,
For the foreign teacher's face was no more about the place
But was closed for alterations and repairs.

If disguises you would try or would prove an alibi.
Or alter your appearance just for fun;
You've just one thing to do, go teach French at Killaloe,
And your mother will not know you for a son.
French may be very fine, it's no enemy of mine.
But as I think you'll aisily suppose,
Whatever tongue " you take, It is mighty hard to spake.
While your ear keeps changing places with your nose.

Now I'm glad to find 'tis true, ye are pleased with Killaloe,
And our conduct to the teacher they did send;
But I've tould you all that passed, so this verse must be the last.
That's the reason I have left it to the end.
We're all Irish tenants there, and we're all prepared to swear.
That to the Irish language we'll be true,
But we all, with one consent, when they ask us for the rent.
Sure, we answer them in French in killaloe.