Hear, O hear, Isolde la belle! Tristan, sad hero, hear!

Anno Domini nostri sancti Jesu Christi

Nine hundred and ninetynine million pound sterlingº in the blueblack bowels of the bank of Ulster

Braw bawbees and good gold pounds, by God, a Sunday, my girleen, '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 ariding

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 the worst of his steel 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 this week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing (What?) for your own nursetender?

A power of highsteppers died game right enough — but who, acushla, 'll beg 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 eiderdown bed picnic to follow.

By the cross of Cong, says she after, MacDougall, but you're the most likable lad that's come my ways yet from the barony of Bohermore.