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Ochone ! and what will I do ?
Sure my love is all crost,
Like a bud in the frost; And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes into my head;
And 'tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew, And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame!
You're complater than nature,
In every feature;
The snow can't compare
With your forehead so fair; And I rather would see just one blink of your eye Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky;
And by this and by that,
For the matter o' that, You're more distant by far than that same!
Ochone ! I'm alone ! I'm alone in this world without you.
Ochone! but why should I spake Of your forehead and eyes, When your nose it defies PaddyBlake, the schoolmasther, to put it in ihyme; Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime.
And then for your cheek, Troth 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather; Then your lips, oh, machree !
In their beautiful glow, They a patthern might be For the cherries to grow. 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we
know. For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago; But at this time o' day, 'Pon my conscience, I'll say, Such cherries might tempt a man's father! Ochone! weirasthru; Ochone ! I'm alone ! I'm alone in this world without you.