Maureen, acushla, ah! why such a frown on you!
Sure, ’tis your own purty smiles should be there,
Under those ringlets that make such a crown on you,
As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear,
When from the picthers in church they look down on you,
Kneeling in prayer.
Troth, no, you needn’t, there isn’t a drop on me,
Barrin’ one half-one to keep out the cowld;
And, Maureen, if you’ll throw a smile on the top o’ me,
Half-one was never so sweet, I’ll make bowld.