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Pat Malloy At sixteen years of age I was My mother's fair-haired boy. She kept a little huckster's shop, Her name it was Malloy. "I've thirteen children, Pat," she said, "Which heaven to me hath sent. But children ain't like pigs, you know- They can't pay the rent." She gave me every shilling There was within the till And kissed me fifty times or more As if she'd never fill. "Oh, heaven bless you, Pat," said she, "And don't forget, my boy, Ould Ireland is your country, and Your name is Pat Malloy." The English girls are beautiful, Their loves I don't decline; The eating and the drinking, too, Are beautiful and fine. But in a corner of my heart Where nobody can see, Two eyes of Irish blue Are always peering out at me. Oh, Molly, darling, never fear, I'm still your own dear boy. Ould Ireland is my country And my name is Pat Malloy. From England to America Across the seas I roam, And every shilling that I got I'm sure I sent it home. My mother couldn't write a line, There came from Father Boyce: "Oh, Heaven bless you, Pat," said she. I hear my mother's voice. And now I'm going home again As poor as I began, To make a happy girl of Moll, And, sure, I think I can! My pockets they are empty, But my heart is filled with joy, Ould Ireland is my country, and My name is Pat Malloy! From Song Catcher in the Southern Mountains, Scarborough Collected from Harriet Foster, SC DT #533 Laws Q24 RG oct96
Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!