What would I do if you was dead?
And when do you think of dying?
I'd stand by your bed, and hold your head,
And cry, or pretind to be crying!
There's many a worser man nor you—
If one knew where to find him—
And mebbe many a better, too,
With money to leave behind him!
But you, if I was dying to-day,
(I saw you now when you kissed her!)
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at—
You'd marry your widdy's sister!
You'd make an illigant corpse, indade,
Sleeping so sound and stiddy;
If you could see yourself as you laid,
You'd want to come back to Biddy!
You would be dressed in your Sunday best,
As tidy as I could make you,
With a sprig of something on your breast,
And the boys would come to wake you.
But you, if I was dead in your stead,
(Do you think I never missed her?)
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at—
You'd marry your widdy's sister!
The undertaker would drive the hearse
That has the big black feather;
If there was no money left in your purse,
Your friends would club together.
They'd look at your cold remains before
They followed you down to the ferry,
And the coaches standing at the door
Would go to the cemetery.
But you, if I was once in the box,
(I wonder her lips don't blister!)
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at—
You'd marry your widdy's sister!
When you was under the sod I'd sigh,
And—if I could do without you—
Mebbe I've a strapping lad in my eye
Would come here and talk about you.
A little courtin' would be divertin',
A kind voice whispering "Biddy!"
And a kiss on the sly—for what's the hurt in
A man consoling a widdy?
But you, before I was dead at all,
(Now don't deny that you kissed her!)
I tell you, Pat, what you'd be at—
You'd marry your widdy's sister!