Let me shake the hand that shook the hand of Sullivan

              The Bradys and O'Gradys, ye may talk about them all,
The Laceys and the Caseys from Bombay to Donegal;
I'd like to find another man, that’s fit to breath the air
Wid Sullivan the gintleman From good old county Clare.
It's him that's aisy wid the girls and solid wid the men,
And whin the whiskey jug goes round can drink enough for ten;
If any wan does know him here, I don't care who's the man,
Let me shake the hand that shook the hand of Sullivan.

He wears a hat the stoyle of that they wore in ninety-eight,
Wid whiskers thin foreninst his chin which makes him look so swate;
A black-thorn stick widin his fist, he's swinging night and day,
He houlds it there, the boys declare, To kape the girls away.
The widdy Dolan had a raffle for a stove one night, 
He danced until the tin roof tumbled in and raised a fight;
To settle all the damages, He stepped up like a man,
Let me shake the hand that shook the hand of Sullivan.

The boot-blacks on the corner they all wait to catch his eye,
It's "good day Mishter Sullivan," as he goes walkin' by;
He wears a rose as big as any turnip, on his coat,
A standup collar half-mast high, And big enough to vote.
The tons av coal he gave away would fill the river up,
And when he drinks it's "come me bye's and have another sup;"
He has me vote for President, Way down to Alderman,
Let me shake the hand that shook the hand of Sullivan.

Chorus
He's the pride of the ward,
Happy as a lord,
He's got the reputation of a man;
Arrah, good luck to yez all,
Let's have another ball,
Let me shake the hand that shook the hand of Sullivan.