“Begorra, now, I’ll have yees
   Widout much throuble more;”
 An’ in he shlips quite unbeknownst,
   An’ hides be’ind the door.

 An’ thin, a minute afther,
   In comes the small Rid Hin,
 An’ shuts the door, and locks it, too,
   An’ thinks, “I’m safely in.”

 An’ thin she tarns around
   An’ looks be’ind the door;
 There shtands the Fox wid his big tail
   Shpread out upon the floor.

 Dear me! she was so schared
   Wid such a wondrous sight,
 She dropped her apronful of shticks,
   An’ flew up in a fright,

 An’ lighted on the bame
   Across on top the room;
 “Aha!” says she, “ye don’t have me;
   Ye may as well go home.”

 “Aha!” says Fox, “we’ll see;
   I’ll bring yees down from that.” 
 So out he marched upon the floor
   Right under where she sat.

 An’ thin he whiruled around,
   An’ round an’ round an’ round,
 Fashter an’ fashter an’ fashter,
   Afther his tail on the ground.

 Until the small Rid Hin
   She got so dizzy, shure,
 Wid lookin’ at the Fox’s tail,
   She jist dropped on the floor.

 An’ Fox he whipped her up,
   An’ pit her in his bag,
 An’ off he started all alone,
   Him and his little dag.

 All day he tracked the wood
   Up hill an’ down again;
 An’ wid him, shmotherin’ in the bag,
   The little small Rid Hin.

 Sorra a know she knowed
   Awhere she was that day;
 Says she, “I’m biled an’ ate up, shure,
   An’ what’ll be to pay?”

 Thin she betho’t hersel’,
   An’ tuk her schissors out,
 An’ shnipped a big hole in the bag,
   So she could look about.

 An’ ’fore ould Fox could think
   She lept right out—­she did,
 An’ thin picked up a great big shtone,
   An’ popped it in instid.

 An’ thin she rins off home,
   Her outside door she locks;
 Thinks she, “You see you don’t have me,
   You crafty, shly ould Fox.”

 An’ Fox, he tugged away
   Wid the great big hivy shtone,
 Thimpin’ his shoulders very bad
   As he wint in alone.

 An’ whin he came in sight
   O’ his great din o’ rocks,
 Jist watchin’ for him at the door
   He shpied ould mither Fox.

 “Have ye the pot a-bilin’?”
   Says he to ould Fox thin;
 “Shure an’ it is, me child,” says she;
   “Have ye the small Rid Hin?”

 “Yes, jist here in me bag,
   As shure as I shtand here;
 Open the lid till I pit her in: 
   Open it—­niver fear.”

 So the rashkill cut the sthring,
   An’ hild the big bag over;
 “Now when I shake it in,” says he,
   “Do ye pit on the cover.”

 “Yis, that I will;” an’ thin
   The shtone wint in wid a dash,
 An’ the pot oy bilin’ wather
   Came over them ker-splash.

 An’ schalted ’em both to death,
   So they couldn’t brathe no more;
 An’ the little small Rid Hin lived safe,
   Jist where she lived before.