We let the fire go out, ’cause we’s going to the ball,
The childers wud set up till nine o’clock and past,
Till they wud say they knowed that their papa was lost,
An’ they hoped yer wud be sober when yer did get home,
Och, Patrick, tell me truly, where did you get yer rum?
The days were glad without you, the nights were spent in revel,
And now you have come home, Pat, you drunken divil;
Last night I sung and danced by the moon’s gentle ray,
Till I thought I heerd yer voice, when I stopped right away;
But I soon resumed my sport when I found you had not come,