As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke!
Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,
I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;
I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,
That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!
When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,
I read it on a paper,—in the Bowry of New York,—
Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,
Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"