She sobbed herself sick as she sat in the cowld.
Oh, you'd think she was kilt,
As she roar'd with the quilt
Wrapp'd round her in haste as she jumped out of bed,
And ran down to the coast,
Where she looked like a ghost,
Though 't was he was departed—the vagabone fled
And she cried, "Well-a-day!
Sure my heart it is grey:
They're deceivers, them sojers, that goes on half-pay."