Once across my shoulder glancing, with the moonlight o’er him dancing,
I espied the old man prancing like a madman in the door,
And I muttered, “Men like you should be slaughtered by the score,
And you’ll raise the count one more.”
While the broadcloth Bull was chewing, I my way was still pursuing,
And I soon, quite tired and panting, lay upon my cottage floor.
Then I cursed my Mary’s daddy, and I called him an old paddy,
And I swore I’d whip the laddy till my pardon he’d implore.
But she’s lost to me for ever, the dear girl whom I adore,
Ay, for ever—evermore.