AN IRISH SONG

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!