And I’ve made myself drinkin’ your health quite a baste,
So I think after that, I may talk to the priest.”
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm ’round her neck,
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 you have kiss’d me before.”
“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure,
For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More.