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He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench, He springs in his saddle and chasses the French

With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.

"His spirits are high, and he little knows care, Whether sipping his claret, or charging

a square

With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.

As ready to sing, or to skirmish he's found,

To take off his wine, or to take up his ground;

When the bugle may call him, how little he fears,

To charge forth in column, and beat the Mounseers

With his jingling spur and his bright


"When the battle is over, he gaily rides back

To cheer every soul in the night bivouac

With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.

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Oh! there you may see him in full glory crown'd,

As he sits with his friends on the hardly won ground,

And hear with what feeling the toast he will give,

As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live

With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche."


To drink a toast,
A proctor roast,

Or bailiff, as the case is;
To kiss your wife,
Or take your life

At ten or fifteen paces:

To keep game cocks-to hunt the fox,
To drink in punch the Solway,
With debts galore, but fun far more
Oh, that's the man for Galway.'
Chorus-With debts, &c


The king of Oude

Is mighty proud,

And so were onst the Caysars(Cæsars;

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But ould Giles Eyre
Would make them stare,

Av he had them with the Blazers. To the devil I fling-ould Rungeet Sing, He's only a Prince in a small way, And knows nothing at all of a six foot wall;

Oh he'd never 'do for Galway'

"Ye think the Blakes
Are no 'great shakes;'

They're all his blood relations,
And the Bodkins sneeze
At the grim Chinese,
For they come from the Phenaycians,
So fill to the brim, and here's to him
Who'd drink in punch the Solway
With debts galore, but fun far more;
Q! that's the man, for Galway.'
Chorus-With debts, &c


Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone !

Who lived in the town of Athlone


Oh! she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts,


So lovely the Widow Malone,

So lovely the Widow Malone

Of lovers she had a full score,

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Or more;

And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;

From the minister down To the clerks of the crown, All were courting the widow Malone,

Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,
'Twas known
No one ever could see her alone,

Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,

Ohone '

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O'Brien of Clare, How quare?

It's little for blushin' they care
Down there;

Put his arms round her waist Gave ten kisses, at laste, 'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly


My own;' "Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone.'

And the Widow they all thought so shy;
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,
For why?

But Lucius,' says she, 'Since you've made now so free You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone! You may marry your Mary Malone.' There's moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And one comfort it's not very long, But strong:

If for widows you die
Learn to kiss not to sigh;

For they're all like sweet Mistress


Ohone !

Oh! they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.

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