O! don't be beguilin' my heart with your wilin', 
You've tried that same thrick far too often before, 
And by this blessed minnit an' day that is in it, 
I'll take right good care that you'll try it no more! 
You thought that so slyly you walked with O'Reilly, 
By man and by mortal unheard and unseen, 
While your hand he kept squeezin',  and you looked so pleasin,'  
Last Saturday night in your father's boreen. 

His thricks and his schamin' has set you a-dhramin'; 
That any one blessed with their eyesight may see, 
You're not the same crature you once war by nature, 
And they that are thraitors won't do, faith, for me! 
Tho' it is most distressin' to think that a blessin' 
Was just about fallin' down plump on the scene, 
When a cunning culloger, as black as an ogre, 
Upsets all your hopes in a dirty boreen. 

And 'tis most ungrateful, unkind, and unfaithful, 
When you very well know how I gave the go-by, 
Both to pride and to pleasure, temptation, and treasure, 
To dress all my looks by the light of your eye.  
O! 'tis Mary Mullaly, that lives in the valley, 
'Tis she that would say how ill-used I have been, 
And she's not the deludher to smile and to soother, 
And then walk away to her father's boreen. 

I send you your garter, for now I'm a martyr, 
And keepsakes and jims are the least of my care, 
So when things are exchangin',  since you took to rangin' 
I'll trouble you, too, for the lock of my hair. 
I know by its shakin',  my heart is a-breakin',   
You'll make me a corpse when I'd make you a queen,  
But as sure as I'm livin', it's you I'll be givin' 
A terrible fright, when I haunt the boreen!