  Taken down from a man named William O'Ryan, of Newcastle, I've a story to tell you, My little Duideen, As ugly a story As ever was seen; The days are gone by When I held my head high, And that this is your doing, You cannot deny. It is you, without doubt, Stole my means and my wealth, My name and my fortune, My friends and my health; But if only I were In new lands far from Clare, I'd be scraping and saving With the best of them there! While you are well-filled, Cleaned up, and kept trim, There's no bread on my plate And no strength in my limb; In the fields over-night, Sure, not only the birds But my friends would take flight! I might buy a laced hat For your handsome young head, That would pass with O'Hara, When all's done and said; But to you 'tis no odds Though I fast day and night, Your mouth is wide open Still asking its light. When I go out to Mass My best coat is in slashes, And quite half my food Has been burnt in the ashes; My heels may go cold, 'Tis for you, I allege, The tobacconist's shop Has my breeches in pledge! The time that poor Nora Thought me down at the loom, Throwing the shuttle Or doing a turn; I'd be lighting my pipe About old Joseph's door; Discoursing and drinking An hour or more. My little duideen, You're the cunningest rogue That ever was seen! But I'm done with you quite, Off, out of my sight! With O'Kelly the weaver I'm away at daylight! |
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