Highland plaid (3)/Irish Providence

IRISH PROVIDENCE.

My darling, says Pat, to his spouse on his lap,
At this present writing we're not worth a rap,
⁠With our faces so lean, and our duds on our backs.
Our cow and our pig, my dear Norah, are dead,

Not a single paratoe is left us for bread;
The science of ploughing my father taught me,
So I'll e'en try the water and plough the salt sea,
⁠With my Jill, sing Jack, sing Bibligo whack.

Says Norah, when you're on the ocean, my life,
Sure Providence then will take care of your wife,
⁠For no babies have we, not a Jill nor a Jack.
But when Pat was away, what did Providence do,
Made the squire build for Norah a cabin quite new,
He furnish'd it gaily to dry up her tears,
And he peopl'd it too in the space of three years,
⁠With his Jill, sing Jack, &c.

But when Paddy return'd how it gladden‘d his heart,
To see his dear Norah so fine and so smart,
⁠With her rings in her ears and her silks on her back.
And who furnish'd for you this cabin, says Pat?
'Twas Providence, says Norah, himself that did that;

Then Providence, Pat cried, as looking around,
Is the neatest Upholsterer ever was found,
⁠With his Jill, sing Jack, &c.

Then Norah, dear Norah, come tell me if you please,
Whose four little chubby-cheek'd rascals are these,
⁠These pretty gossoons, with their locks all so black?
They are mine, Pat, by Providence sent me, d'ye see—
Botheration! says Pat, come now don't humbug me;
For if Providence minds to send legs to your chairs,
Sure he'll never forget to send fathers for heirs,
⁠With his Jill, sing Jack, &c.

Och Norah, when I've been upon the salt sea,
By Saint Patrick, you've been a big traitress to me,
⁠May whisky console me, for I'm on the rack.
For if Providence peoples my cabin with brats

While I'm sailing over live herrings and sprats,
Mr Deputy Providence, that'll ne'er do,
So to him and old Nick I kick babies and you,
⁠With my Jill, sing Jack, &c.