But ye'll see me stoning lumps of gould at the beggarly Kangaroos;
And there's nayther shooting of bailiffs, nor any such wicked fun,
In land that lies beneath our feet, on t'other side of the sun.
And no more masses to pay for!—good day to ye, Father O'Bladd,
The last Confession from me, faiks, and the very last penny ye've had;
It's little Yer Reverence leaves behind when ye clear away our sin,
As the prophet sez, ye purge our dross, and take precious care of the tin.
Ye've a bandage on yer wrist, Molly; that wrist with gems I'll deck,
And a string of nuggets, like millstones, I'll hang about yer neck,
And we'll live in a snug retirement where our nearest neighbour'll be