Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,--
How quare!
It's little for blushing they care
Down there,
Put his arm round her waist--
Gave ten kisses at laste--
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,
My own!"
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."
And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,
For why?
But "Lucius," says she,
"Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone."
There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong,
And one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong,--
If for widows you die,
Learn to kiss, not to sigh,
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone!
Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.
_Charles Lever_.
THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN.
And did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply?
And he feathered his oars with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each heart and delighting each eye.
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