One Sunday after Mass
As Lawrence and his lass
Through the green wood did pass
All alone, and all alone.

He asked her for a pogue,
But she called him a rogue,
And she beat him with her brogue,
Ochone and ochone!

At first my boy he bent,
As if to take, content,
His proper punishment.
Small blame too, small blame!

But on her purty foot,
Unbothered by a boot,
He pressed a warm salute.
For shame! fie! for shame!

Then Larry gets the worst,
For she boxed his ears at first,
Then into tears she burst,
Ochone and ochone!

But soon the artful rogue
Soothed his crying colleen oge,
Till she gave him just one pogue,
All alone, and all alone!