Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;
Her fond lover, Pat, from her _nate_ cabin stole,
And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie.
Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!
Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;
A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his _aise_;
“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell,
Then a _twopenny magpie_ for me, if you _plaise_!”
Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!