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THE IRISH PICKET.
The only moon I see, Biddy,
Is one shmall star, asthore, And that's fornint the very cloud
It was behind before ; The watch-fires glame along the hill
That's swellin' to the south, And whin the sintry passes them,
I see his ougly mouth.
It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,
And dramein' shwate I 'd be, If them ould Rebels over there
Would only lave me free ; But when I lane against a shtump
And shtrive to get repose, A musket ball be 's comin' shtraight
To hit me spacious nose.
It's ye I 'd like to see, Biddy,
A shparkin here wid me, And then, avourneen, bear ye say,
" Acushla — Pat — machree ! " " Och, Biddy, darlint," then says I,
Says you, " get out of that," Says I, " me arrum mates your waist,
Says you, " Be daycent, Pat." |
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