“For I’m aisy in love and divarsion,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.
O’Shanahan, don’t think you’re welcome, for I was but this moment, I’m sure,
Saying—“Speak of the dhioul[30] and he’ll come,” and that moment you stood on the floor;
Now you’ll blarney, and flatter, and swear it, while you know I’ve my spinning to do,
It would take a bright angel to bear it—
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;
“For, darling, all know you’re an angel,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.
O’Shanahan Dhu, there’s Jack Morrow, the smith in the hill-forge above,
Who says marriage is nothing but sorrow, and a wedding the end of all love;
I myself don’t care much for believing that it’s gospel, yet what can one do,