no one could see her alone, Ohone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone! So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,-- How quare! It's little for blushing they care Down there, Put his arm round her waist-- Gave ten kisses at laste-- "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own!" "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."
And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, For why? But "Lucius," says she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone! You may marry your Mary Malone."
There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong, And one comfort, it's not very long, But strong,-- If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, no