So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light,
And he kissed her sweet lips—don’t you think he was right?
“Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you’ll hug me no more;
That’s eight times to-day that you’ve kissed me before.”
“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure,
For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’Moore.
Lover.
