Away she cut so light and airy.
“Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”
“Faith, I will!” says Lanty Leary.
Rose, herself, was taken bad,
The fayver worse each day was growin’;
“Lanty, dear,” says she, “’tis sad,
To th’ other world I’m surely goin’.
You can’t survive my loss, I know,
Nor long remain in Tipperary.
Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”