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108 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH
But so modest was Mistress Maione,
'Twas known. No one could se« her aione,
Ohon»! Let them ogie and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Maione,
Ohone! So bashful the Widow Maione. Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare—
How queer!— It's littie for blushing they care
Down there, Put his arm round her waist-Gave ten kisses at least— "Oh," says he, "you're my Moiiy Maione,
My own. Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Maione." 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 Maione." There's a moral contained in my song.
Not wrong. And one comfort, it's not very iong,
But strong— If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh. For they're aii like sweet Mistress Maione,
Ohone! For they're all like sweet Mistress Maione. |
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WIDOW MACHREE.
Widow Machree. 'tis no wonder you frown,
Och hone! Widow Machree, Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone! Widow Machree. .How altered your air. With that close cap you wear, 'Tis destroying your hair
That should be flowing free; Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl,
Och hone! Widow Machree. Widow Machree! now the summer is come,
Och hone! Widow Machree. When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum, Och hone! Widow Machree, See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares, Why even the bears
In couples agree, And the mute little fish. Though they can't spake, they wish, Och hone! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, and when winter comes In,
Och hone! Widow Macbree, To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! Widow Machree, Why, the shovel and tongs To each other belongs. |
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