Whose blarneying lies might a warship float,
Let the girls alone, you big vagabone,
Or soon they’ll have reason to cry, ‘Ochone,’
Go home I say, there’s a rogue in your coat.”
He met Sally one day at the market town,
With her neat blacked shoes and her dimity gown,
And never dreamt she what a rake was nigh;
He whispered soft nothings, he pleaded with sighs,
Praised her red glowing cheek, her round breasts, her blue eyes,
And, O maid of the mountain, he left her to cry—