She’ll be flying to Paddy O’Blarney’s embrace.
Good luck t’her, say I, for the comfort I’ve had,
For when I was merry, she always was sad;
Dead husbands, she tells me, are not worth a curse,
And live ones are often no better than worse.
When she sleeps all alone, she’s all night wide awake,
And dreams that the devil her conscience will take;
To drive him away from her head, my sweet bride
Must have a live spouse to lie by her backside.
Well, let her be married again, what care I,