Let brain-spinning swains

Let brain-spinning swains, in effusions fantastic,

Sing meetings by moonlight in arbour or grove;

But Patrick O'Donnelly's taste is more plastic,

All times and all seasons are fitted for love:

At Cork or Killarny, Killala or Blarney,

At fair, wake, or wedding, my passion must glow:

Fair maid, will you but trust to me,

Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.

When driving the cows of old father O'Leary,

An angel, yourself, I had still in my eye;

When digging potatoes, mud-spatter'd and weary.

O what did I think on, but you, with a sigh!

At plough, or haymaking, I'm in an odd tucking,

My bosom heaves high, though my spirits be low:

Fair maid, will you but trust to me,

Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.

When first I 'spied your sweet face, I remember,

That hot summer day, how I shiver'd for shame!

You smil'd when I met you again in December,

And then, by the Pow'rs, I was all in a flame!

Come summer, come winter, in you my thoughts center,

I doat on you, Judy, from top to he toe:

Fair maid, will you but trust to me

Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.