With me pike upon me shoulder

And you're of the country, aren't ye, lad?

Aye, the son of kings. Maybe the kings of the Annaly bogs but p'raps of the Fearghael  kings of  of the wild Wickelow mountains. 'tis hard to says since the bloody English burned the baptisimal certificates. Anyway, won't I be celebratin' this lovely day in a quiet manner? And won't I not be be with the Germans and Dutch and like pretendin' raff in Emmetsburg? And even if a few sons of the Auld  Sod be there, haven't I already seen me Paddy brothers and sisters brawling' and pukin' in the streets  before and them not even knowing about Colonel Farrell up on Kilgarry Mountain?

But if you're of another mind, lad, don't I wish ye the best of St. Patrick's Day, and as an act of kindness don't I remind ye to keep a few punt in your boot for bail money when the black and tans jug ye just for bein' what youse are.