Terry O’Reilly.
Sure, Terry O’Reilly, I’ve waited, you know,
And sure you’re not coming like my own thrue beau;
I’ve look’d through the windy till each little pane,
Is near hid by my tears like a shower of rain.
Och! hone! Terry, come soon!
Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.
Sweet Terry O’Reilly, why keep me sighing?
If I tarry longer, of grief I’ll be dying;
Now, Terry, pray haste, and this heart give relief,
Or faith, my dear Terry, I’ll soon die with grief.
Och! hone! Terry, come soon,
Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.
Dear Terry O’Reilly, I ne’er was a flirt,
Still Terence is handsome, and he’ll gain my heart;
Sure some one I must have, whose kindness will prove,
He’s devoted to me, and faith him I’ll love.
Och! hone! Terry, come soon,
Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.
Now, Terry O’Reilly, I am tired of sighing,
I’m wearied to death, sure, with fretting and crying;
I’ll marry to spite you, ma cushla, and part,
With love for you, Terry, and so break my heart.
Och! hone! Terry, come soon,
Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.