The humour of Ireland

by Unknown

Och hone, Widow Machree.

How altered your air,

With that close cap you wear—

It’s destroying your hair,

Which should be flowing free,

Be no longer a churl

Of its black silken curl,

Och hone, Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, now the summer is come,

Och hone, Widow Machree,