Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;
Her fond lover, Pat, from her nate cabin stole,
And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie.
Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!
Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;
A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his aise;
“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell,
Then a twopenny magpie for me, if you plaise!”
Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!