7 Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while, Beneath yon cloister wall: See, through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzling rain doth fall.
O stay me not, thou holy friar, O stay me not I pray: No drizzling rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away.
BILLY O'ROURKE.
I greased my brogues and cut my stick, At the latter end of May, sir, And off for Dublin I set out, To sail upon the sea, sir. Then next to England I would go, To reap the hay and corn, sir, To leave old Ireland far behind, The place where I was born, sir. With my shillelah coh, And my heart so true, Oh, Billy O'Rourke's the boy, sir.
I paid the captain six thirteens, To carry me over to Margate, Before we got half over the waves, It blew at a hell of a hard rate. The great big stick that grew out of the ship, Began to roar and whistle,
