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THE IRISH WIDOW.
A Widow bewitch'd with her paſſion,
Tho' Iriſh, is not quite aſhamed,
To think that ſhe's ſo out of faſhion,
To marry and then to be tam'd:
'Tis love the dear joy,
That old faſhion'd boy,
Has got into my breaſt with his quiver,
The blind urchan he,
Struck the cruſh law maw chree;
And a husband ſecures me for ever!
Ye fair ones I hope will excuſe me,
Tho' vulgar phay do not abuſe me,
I cannot become a fine Lady,
O love has bewitch'd Mother Brady.
Ye criticks to murder ſo willing,
Pray ſee all our errors with blindneſs;
For once charge your method of killing,
And kill a fond widow with kindneſs,
If you look ſo ſevere,
in a fit of deſpair,
Again I will ⟨draw⟩ forth my ſteel, Sirs,
You know I've the art,
To be twice thro' your heart,
When I make you it for to feel, Sirs,
Brother ſogers, I hope you'll protect me,
Nor let cruel criticks diſſect me;
To favour my cauſe be but ready,
And grateful you'll find widow Brady.
