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Now then, now then, what do you say now?
Here he is, and I think you'll allow,
Eh, Mrs. Quayle, you'll allow, I think,
Not the smallest sign of drink.
And I ast your pardon humble I do—
I'm forgettin' myself. But is it you?
Is it you? is it you? Whisper then,
The millish ven!
Close, Billy, close—
God knows
I love you, Billy, and you love me,
Don't you, Billy? my chree! my chree!
Aw, just to hear—
Chut! I'm foolish, but O, the dear!
The—Steady, did ye say? yis, Billy, yis!
Steady it is.
Now, Mrs. Quayle, is he drunk or sober?
Poor ould Billy! And last October
He sailed, poor chap! And it's me that's drunk—
With joy you mane? And have you got your trunk—
What am I talkin'? your chiss—dear me! and didn' I see't
Comin' along the street—
Of coorse, and mended—
You tould me. O! isn' all this beautiful? isn' it splendid?
Closer, Billy, closer then!
Crid shen?
Nothin', but . . . lizzen, Billy, whisp'rin's free
I love Billy, and he loves me . . .
Do you, Billy? as God's above,
Do you love
Me, Billy? The word, Billy, as soft as soft—
What am I thinkin' of?
Aw, ye said it, ye said it. And now I'll trouble ye
Is he drunk or sober, this young man, W.
Sayle, by name? Aw, you'll 'scuse me, won't ye?
Aw I didn' mane to 'front ye,
Aw nothin' of the surt! Only, ye see, the glad
I am it's fit to drive me mad.
And I'm rather young . . . at laste, not that oul',
You'll 'scuse me, won't ye . . .