O Peggy, darlin’, listen to my sorrowful lamint,
And help me to recover from my state of discontint;
There’s an end to fun an’ sportin’ in these black and bitther days,
And we’ll have to drop our coortin’ by the moon’s enchanting rays.
For there isn’t a dacent gossoon,
By the light of that same silver moon,
Found out of his bed,
But will straightway be led
To a cushion of plank,
That of feathers is blank,
An’ he won’t fall in love with too soon.