Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.

She—It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,

Yis, and impudence galore!

Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,

When yer afther half-a-score?

He—Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,

Found at all the likes o’ you.

She—Now my worsted all is ravelled

And whatever will I do?

He—Might I make so bould to ask it,