I’m out me knees thinnin turmits,
An the soil’s turble coul on the hans,
An I’m thinkin about them swell vermits
A-comin here fro furrin lans.

Aw the swank thas at them’s thremenjus,
An talkin, aw, jes la de da,
With v’ices lek oul dhoors on henges
A-swakin on th’oul rusty bar.

An clanin theer shoes fit to dazzle,
To dazzle, my gogh, with theer shine,
An goin they say on the razzle
A-drinkin the divil’s own wine.

Theer’s wan hangin roun for our Kirry
Won’t gerrer if I avar know,
Purtendin to be mighty merry,
But all it purron lek a show.

Thee’re flase, i’s goin without sayin,
As false as thee’re makin them now,
An navar in chapel nor prayin,
An norras much sowl as a cow.

My song, but the graces thas arrim,
The wan thas come for Kirry veg,
Steppin keerfully into the farrim,
An bendin so slow his long leg,

An his nose in the air gently snuffin
As he’s passin a good hearty smell,
And but for the fac theer’s enough in
I’d drop him down th’oul orchard well.

I would, aw I would, I would do it,
If he doesn’ go quick on his ways,
Burra gommag I am an I know it,
I dursn’ stan up to his face;

For his tongue is that quick lek and witty
Tha’ I’m all fother-killey, thas right,
But he navar will get our young Kitty,
Naw, not even if I must fight

To kape him away, though his permits
Be battha than Tommie the Can’s –
An I’m out on knees thinnin turmits,
An the soil’s turble coul on the hans.