O Molly dear
Behold the tear
   That's standing in my eye.
It gathered there,
Sweet, witching fair,
   When I for thee did sigh.

Dear Maid of Cork,
I'm like a stork
   That mopes in dull morass.
Say, maid divine,
That thou'lt be mine,
   Thou charming Irish Lass.

And if you say
"O get away,
   And don't be blarney bringing!"
No more I'll mope,
But buy a rose,
   And set my troubles swinging.  

"Terence"
The Gadfly, 15 May 1907, p1221