(I’m not goin’ to fall, Misther Moore! take your arm from around my waist).
’Twas the like of you there wasn’t in Ballaghaslatthery town,
(There’s Mary Mullaly, the hussy, an’ she wearin’ her laylock gown!)
I’ll throw meself into the river; I’ll never come back no more;
(’Twon’t be takin’ ye out of the way to lave me at home, Misther Moore?)
It’s me should have gone that could bear it, now that I’m young and sthrong,
(He was sixty-nine come Christmas: I wondhered he lasted so long!)
Oh, what’s the world at all when him that I love isn’t in it?
(If ’twas any one else but yourself, I’d lave the car this minit!)
There’s nothin’ but sorrow foreninst me, wheresoever I roam,