Oh I have worn my mourning out,
And on her grave the green grass grows;
So I will hang each sorry clout
High in the corn to scare the crows.
And I will buy a peacock tie,
And coat of cloth of Donegal;
Then to the Farmer’s Fair I’ll hie
And peek in at the Barley Ball.
But though the fiddlers saw a jig
I used to foot when I was wed,
I’ll walk me home and feed the pig,
And go a lonesome man to bed.
So I will wait another year,
As any decent chap would do,
Till I can think without a tear
Of her whose eyes were cornflower blue.
Then to the Harvest Ball I’ll hie,
And I will wear a flower-sprigged vest;
For Maggie has a nut-brown eyes,
And we will foot it with the best.
And if kind-minded she should be
To wife me – ’tis the will if God . . .
But Oh the broken heart f me
For her who lies below the sod!