But so modest was Mistress Malone,
That no one could see her alone,
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne’er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Mister O’Brien, from Clare,—
It’s little for blushing they care
Put his arm round her waist—
Gave ten kisses at laste—
“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone,
“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone.”
And the widow they all thought so shy,
Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh,
But “Lucius,” says she,
“Since you’ve now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
You may marry your Mary Malone.”
There’s a moral contained in my song,
And one comfort, it’s not very long,
If for widows you die,
Learn to kiss, not to sigh,
For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Oh, they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone.
And did you ne’er hear of a jolly young waterman,
Who at Blackfriars Bridge used for to ply?
And he feathered his oars with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each heart and delighting each eye.
He look’d so neat, and he row’d so steadily,
The maidens all flock’d in his boat so readily;
And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air,
That this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.
What sights of fine folks he oft row’d in his
’Twas clean’d out so nice, and so painted withal;
He was always first oars when the fine city ladies
In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall.
And oftentimes would they be giggling and leering,
But ’twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering;
For loving or liking he little did care,
For this waterman ne’er was in want of a fare.
And yet but to see how strangely things happen,
As he row’d along, thinking of nothing at all,
He was ply’d by a damsel so lovely and charming,
That she smil’d, and so straightway in love he did fall.
And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow,
He’d wed her to-night, and not wait till to-morrow;
And how should this waterman ever know care,
When, married, was never in want of a fair.