And uncle, I think, to King David,
That peopled the county of Clare.
Sure his heart was as light as a feather,
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—