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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.

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 bay 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,