Sure, Terry O’Reilly, I’ve waited, you know,
And sure you’re not coming like my own thrue beau;
I’ve look’d through the windy till each little pane,
Is near hid by my tears like a shower of rain.
Och! hone! Terry, come soon!
Or else I’ll get married some fine afternoon.
Sweet Terry O’Reilly, why keep me sighing?
If I tarry longer, of grief I’ll be dying;
Now, Terry, pray haste, and this heart give relief,
Or faith, my dear Terry, I’ll soon die with grief.