When you men are so given to deceiving—
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu;
“We’re the thieves of the world, still you like us,” says the ranting O’Shanahan Dhu.
O’Shanahan Dhu, why come scheming, when there’s nobody in but poor me,
Can you fancy I’m foolish or draming, to believe that our hearts could agree?
Don’t you know, sir, all round they’re reporting, with good reason, perhaps, for it too,
That Jack Shea’s dainty daughter you’re courting?—
“That’s the truth,” says O’Shanahan Dhu,
“But there’s no one believes it, my darling,” with a wink, says O’Shanahan Dhu.
O’Shanahan Dhu, now you’ll vex me, let me go, sir, this moment, I say,