For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.
“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like,
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;
The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound.”
“Faith,” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.”
“Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go,
Sure, I dream every night that I’m hating you so.”
“Oh!” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear,
For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear;
Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die,