II

Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night comin' down be the sthrame,

An' it seems to me now like a bit of yisther-day in a dhrame—

Here where yer Honour seen her—there was but a slip of a moon,

But I hard thim—Molly Magee wid her batchelor, Danny O'Roon—

'You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur' an' Danny says 'Troth, an' I been

Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's shebeen;

But I must be lavin' ye soon.' 'Ochone are ye goin' away?'

'Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate' he says 'over the say'—

'An' whin will ye meet me agin?' an' I hard him 'Molly asthore,

I'll meet you agin tomorra,' says he, 'be the chapel-door.'

'An' whin are ye goin' to lave me?' 'O' Monday mornin'' says he;

'An shure thin ye'll meet me tomorra?' 'Tomorra, tomorra, Machree!'

Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honour, that had no likin' for Dan,

Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to come away from the man,

An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as a lark,

An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint into the dark.

But wirrah! the storm that night—the tundher, an' rain that fell,

An' the sthrames runnin' down at the back o' the glin 'ud 'a dhrownded Hell.