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Oh,
Mary, this London's a wonderful sight,
Wid the people here workin' by day and by night:
They don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,
But there's gangs o' them diggin' for gold in the street—
At least, when I axed them, that's what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold,
But for all that I found there, I might as well be
Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I believe that, when
writin', a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed.
Well, if you'll believe me, when axed to a ball,
They don't wear a top to their dresses at all!
Oh, I've seen them meself, and you could not, in thrath,
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath_
Don't be startin' them fashions now, Mary Machree
Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I seen England's King
from the top of a 'bus_
I never knew him, though he means to know us:
And though by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still, I cheered—God forgive me—I cheered wid the rest
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore,
We'll be much better friends than we've been heretofore,
When we've got all we want, we're as quiet as can be
Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the sea.
You remember young
Peter O'Loughlin, of course-
Well, here he is now at the head o' the Force.
I met him to-day, I was crossin' the Strand,
And he stopped the whole street wid wan wave of his hand-
And there we stood talking of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on;
But for all these great powers, he's wishful like me,
To be back where dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.
There's beautiful
girls here—oh, never mind!
With beautiful shapes Nature never designed,
And lovely complexions, all roses and crame,
But O'Loughlin remarked wid regard to them same:
'That if at those roses you venture to sip,
The colour might all come away on your lip,'
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me—
Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the sea.
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