"Is it me?" replied Mike, so reproachfully that Ned was completely softened. After the making-your-mind-up minute or two, with a fine, clear voice, he sung.
THE ROSE OF TRALEE.
All ye sportin' young heroes, wid hearts light an' free,
Take care how you come near the town of Tralee;
For the witch of all witches that iver wove spell
In the town of Tralee, at this moment does dwell.
Oh, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,
For the divil all out is the Rose of Tralee.
She's as soft an' as bright as a young summer morn,
Her breath's like the breeze from the fresh blossom'd thorn,