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

"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.

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

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

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

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

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.