Samuel Lover

Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs.

And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me.

Sure my love is all crost Like a bud in the frost And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 't is dhrames and not slape that comes into my head!

As she sat in the low-backed car The man at the turn-pike bar Never asked for the toll But just rubbed his auld poll And looked after the low-backed car.

"That 's eight times to-day that you 've kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there 's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.

A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild-raging sea.

For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.