For fear the ould chate
Wouldn’t play you your favourite tune;
And when you’re at mass
My devotion you crass,
For ’tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew;
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,
That I can’t at your sweet purty face get a peep:
Oh! lave off that bonnet,
Or else I’ll lave on it