Page:Irish widow.pdf/2



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 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.