"Well," said Murphy, "you know," (and his fair bride he placed
In a chair, while he bustled his arm round her waist;
But perceiving a sore throat blow in at the door,
He just twisted his arm round her neck like a boa.)
"Well," he said; "you know"—but he could not get farther.
Oh, truly, the subject seems delicate rather.
"Stop, 'tis really too bad thus your time to be wasting,
When I'm sure the sweet whisky you'd be after tasting.
'Tis a beautiful spirit, will cure melancholy;
And can make even grief to look pleasant and jolly."