AN IRISH SONGPoor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;Her fond lover, Pat, from hernatecabin stole,And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie.Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at hisaise;“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell,Then atwopenny magpiefor me, if youplaise!”Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!
Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;Her fond lover, Pat, from hernatecabin stole,And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie.Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at hisaise;“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell,Then atwopenny magpiefor me, if youplaise!”Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!