IRELAND'S-GOLDEN-ROSE-GETS-
TOO-DAMN-DRUNK !
To Britain she'd come over,
with a sprig of lucky clover,
and Rosie is her name.
She's an Irish-gypsy-type.
Ah yes you've seen the like.
She's known to drink and profane.
Outside of her wagon,
sat with a whiskey-flagon
underneath the starry night;
the girls sings of the roads,
hedgehogs, frogs and toads,
of mushrooms by dawn's gold light.
NEVER-THE-BON-VOYAGE-
THE-ROSE-D'OR?
The gold-girl has gone, she is gone;
without even a goodbye.
Never a wave-of-her-hand;
not as if she was too shy.
She has gone, the gold-girl is gone;
in the blink-of-an-eye
I beheld a very-pretty-rose.
Thorns cut, though I'll not go die.
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