And that’s why I’m silent, which pray let me be.
Oh! Dermot Asthore, is it still are ye there, now;
Don’t throw up the pebbles, you’ll break every pane;
Just take yourself off, for I vow and declare, now,
I’ll get very mad if you wake me again.
It may be for five years, it may be eleven
Or even fourteen, or for life we must part,
But this is no reason to wake me at seven,
So don’t come again, till I’ve made myself smart.