An Agricultural Irish Girl
If all the girls that's In this town were bundled up together,
The girl I love would beat them all In every kind of weather;
The rain can't wash the powder off, because she dees not wear it
Iter face and figure is all her own, that's the truth, for I declare it.
For she's a great big stout, lump of an agricultural Irish girl.
She never paints or powders, for her figure Is all her own;
She can strike that bard you'd think you were hit by the kick of a mule,
The full of the house of Irish love is Mary Ann Malone.
She has no grand education, for she's only past her letters.
But for anything like a lady, faith, you'll seldom find her betters;
She does not speak Italian or read the fashion pages-
Whenever there's a strike about, she's the divil to kick for wages.
She was only seventeen last grass, and still improving greatly,
I wonder what she will be like when her bones have set complately;
You'd think your hand was in a vise whenever she goes to shake it
And if there is any free beer about she's the darling girl to take it.