Till one Mister O’Brien from Clare—
How quare.
It’s little for blushing they care
Down there—
Put his arm round her waist,
Gave ten kisses at laste—
“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,
My own!”
“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”
And the widow they all thought so shy,