When they sailed in to the harbor,
Boston’s bluebloods held their noses.
However picturesque they were, the poor
Irish immigrants did not smell like roses.
With a funny way of talking,
In bowler hats and baggy pants,
Down the gangplank they came, gawking
At the city of Protestants.
Unwelcomed Irish immigrants,
With unhygienic habits,
Fertile cousins, uncles, aunts,
They reproduced like rabbits.
Hard-drinking, hod-carrying Catholics,
They slowly climbed the social ladder.
When they mastered the art of politics,
They made the bluebloods madder.
From shantytowns to lace curtains,
From the wrong to the right side of the tracks,
They speed now on commuter trains
Through ghettoes filled with blacks.