| And no damn loutll come courting thee or by the mother of the Holy | 1 |
| Ghost there'll be murder! | 2 |
| O, come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride | 3 |
| queen from Sybil surfriding | 4 |
| In her curragh of shells of daughter of pearl and her silverymonnblue | 5 |
| mantle round her. | 6 |
| Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she'll dance them a jig and | 7 |
| jilt them fairly. | 8 |
| Yerra, why would she bide with Sig Sloomysides or the grogram grey | 9 |
| barnacle gander? | 10 |
| You won't need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets his | 11 |
| glut of cold meat and hot soldiering | 12 |
| Nor wake in winter, window machree, but snore sung in my old | 13 |
| Balbriggan surtout. | 14 |
| Wisha, won't you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of | 15 |
| next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing (what?) | 16 |
| as your own nursetender? | 17 |
| A power of highsteppers died game right enough | 18 |
| 'll beg coppers for you? | 19 |
| I tossed that one long before anyone. | 20 |
| It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I'm given | 21 |
| now to understand, she was always mad gone on me. | 22 |
| Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed | 23 |
| picnic to follow. | 24 |
| By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight | 25 |
| from under me, Mick, Nick the Maggot or whatever your name | 26 |
| is, you're the mose likable lad that's come my ways yet from the | 27 |
| barony of Bohermore. | 28 |
| Mattheehew, Markeehew, Lukeehew, Johnheehewheehew! | 29 |
| Haw! | 30 |
| And still a light moves long the river. And stiller the mermen | 31 |
| ply their keg. | 32 |
| Its pith is full. The way is free. Their lot is cast. | 33 |
| So, to john for a john, johnajeams, led it be! | 34 |