And her swate little mouth, and her swate little eyes.
Says he, "Let de rest git dere bunches o' roses,
And stick 'em so iligant top o' dere head:
Och! Nora don't nade sich bamboozlificashin:
Her own purty locks is as bright an' as red.
"So, Nora, my darlint, now take pity on me—
Ochone! but 'tis luv is de terrible smart!
An och, bodderashin! 'tis Misther O'Cupid
Wid his little shilaly is breakin' my heart!"
'Twas Lent when Pat said so,—but Nora said, "No, Sir;"