By Samuel Lover

Widow machree, it’s no wonder you frown,—
Och hone! widow machree;
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown,—
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear,—
’Tis destroying your hair,
Which should be flowing free;
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,—
Och hone! widow machree!

Widow machree, now the summer is come,—
Och hone! widow machree,
When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?
Och hone! widow machree!
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares;
Why, even the bears
Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can’t spake, they wish,—
Och hone! widow machree.

Widow machree, and when winter comes in,—
Och hone! widow machree,—
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! widow machree.
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee;
While alone with your cup
Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone! widow machree.

And how do you know, with the comforts I’ve towld,—
Och hone! widow machree,—
But you’re keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld,
Och hone! widow machree!
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled;
Could you sleep in your bed
Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying “Och hone! widow machree!”

Then take my advice, darling widow machree,—
Och hone! widow machree,—
And with my advice, Faith, I wish you’d take me,
Och hone! widow machree!
You’d have me to desire
Then to stir up the fire;
And sure hope is no liar
In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart
When you’d me near your heart,—
Och hone! widow machree!