Till his wife threw small beer on his joy
By falling in love with a pippin,
Which intirely murder’d the boy.
For in rainy, &c.
A fine architict was my father,
As ever walk’d over the sea;
He built Teddy Murphy’s mud cabin—
And didn’t he likewise build me?
Sure, he built him an illigant pigstye,
That made all the Munster boys stare.