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The Town Karnteel–! It’s who’ll reveal
Its praises jushtifiable?
For who can sing av anything
So lovely and reliable?
Whin Summer, Spring, or Winter lies
From Malin’s Head to Tipperary,
There’s no such town for interprise
Bechuxt Youghal and Londonderry!

There’s not its likes in Ireland–
For twic’t the week, be gorries!
They’re playing jigs upon the band,
And joomping there in sacks– and– and–
And racing, wid wheelborries!

Kanteel– it’s there, like any fair,
The purty gurrls is plinty, sure–!
And man-alive! At forty-five
The leg’s av me air twinty, sure!
I lave me cares, and hoein’ too,
Behint me, as is sinsible,
And it’s Karnteel I’m goin’ to,
To cilebrate in principle!

For there’s the town av all the land!
And twic’t the week, be-gorries!
They’re playing jigs upon the band,
And joomping there in sacks– and– and–
And racing, wid wheelborries!

And whilst I feel for owld Karnteel
That I’ve no phrases glorious,
It stands above the need av love
That boasts in voice uproarious–!
Lave that for Cork, and Dublin too,
And Armagh and Killarney thin–,
And Karnteel won’t be troublin’ you
Wid any jilous blarney, thin!

For there’s the town av all the land
Where twic’t the week, be-gorries!
They’re playing jigs upon the band,
And joomping there in sacks– and– and–
And racing, wid wheelborries!