Copyright, 1892, by Frank Harding.
Words and Music by Bobby Mack.
There's a little Irish widow, she's as fair as any rose,
Or any fragrant flower that in the garden grows;
With her little winning smile and her eyes that shine so bright,
Her elegance and grace would fill you with delight.
She's the pride of all the neighborhood, she's always gay and free,
Like the little birds that fly from tree to tree;
Her admirers they are numerous, they come from miles around,
This dainty little widow, her equal can't be found.
Rosie Malone, she's all alone.
In a little white cottage that she calls her own;
A handsome fair widow that's always in glee.
The one that she weds, oh, how happy he'll be.
Just a week ago we gave a dance in honor of O'Dwyer,
The widow, for excitement, the rogue, she hollered fire;
The people all were frantic, Pat McGuire jumped thro' the door,
And when they found Mike Reilly, he had fainted on the floor.
The furniture was all broken, the widow pretended cry,
And with a hot potato hit Casey in the eye;
She didn't seem excited or put out with what she'd done,
But said she'd make things pleasant if she only had a gun. - Chorus.