Hear, O hear, Iseult la belle! Tristan, sad hero, hear!
Anno Domini nostri sancti Jesu Christi
Nine hundred and ninetynine million pound sterling in the blueblack bowels of the bank of Ulster.
Braw bawbees and good gold pounds galore, my girleen, a Sunday'll prank thee finely
And no damn lout'll come courting thee or by the mother of the Holy Ghost there'll be murder!
O, come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride queen from Sybil surfriding
In her curragh of shells of daughter of pearl and her silverymoonblue mantle round her.
Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she'll dance them a jig and jilt them fairly.
Yerra, why would she bide with Sir Sloomysides or the grogram grey barnacle gander?
You won't need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets his glut of cold meat and hot soldiering
Nor wake in winter, widow machree, but snore snug in my old Balbriggan surtout.
Wisha, won't you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing (what?) as your own nursetender?
A power of highsteppers died game right enough — but who, acushla, 'll beg coppers for you?
I tossed that one long before anyone.
It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I'm given now to understand, she was always mad gone on me.
Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed picnic to follow.
By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight from under me, Mick whatever your name is, you're the most likable lad that's come my ways yet from the barony of Bohermore.