My schveet inbatience, lofe!
I hobe you vill oxcuse;
I'm singing schveetly (dere, py Jinks!
Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)
Oh, putiful, schveet maid!
Oh, vill she ever voke?
Der moon is mooning—(Jimminy! dhere
Anoder shtring vent proke!)
Oh, say, old schleeby head!
(Now I vas gitting mad—
I'll holler now und I don't care
Uf I vake up her dad!)
I say, you schleeby, vake!
Vake out! Vake loose! Vake ub!
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!
Oh, cracious! do vake ub!
Dot girl she schleebed—dot rain it rained
Und I looked shtoopid like a geese,
Vhen mit my fiddle I sneaked off
Dodging der rain und dot bolice!
WIDOW MALONE
BY CHARLES LEVER
Did you hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone!
Oh, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in those parts:
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore;
In store;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the Crown
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'Twas known
That no one could see her alone,
Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther 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!"