For I hate those cold hearts that would poverty scorn,
And give to those who don’t want it.
Och! Paddy, is it Yerself?
Och, Pat, is it yerself indade, safe agin to home?
Sure, Bridget told a lie! faith, she said you wouldn’t come,
I heerd yerself a’ coming, and it made my dander rise,
’Dade I knowed yer drunken footstep and yer rummy voice.
’Twas sorrow to my ears in the avenin’s awful gloom—
Och, Paddy, sure, tell me now, where did you get yer rum?
We’s afraid yer would come nightly, but this night of all,