Irish widow/The Irish Widow

THE IRISH WIDOW.

A 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 ⟨draw⟩ 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.

Ye leaders of dreſs and the faſhions,
Who gallop poſt haſte to your ruin,
Who taſte has deſtroy'd all your paſſions,
Pray what do you think of my wooing?
You call it d—n'd low,
Your head and arms ſo,
So liſtleſs, ſo looſe, and ſo lazy;
But pray what can you,
That I cannot do?
O fie, my dear creatures be azy:
Ye patriots and courtiers ſo hearty,
To ſpeech it and vote for your party,
For once be ſo conſtant and ſteady,
And vote to ſupport widow Brady.

To all that I ſee here before me,
The bottom, the top, and the middle,
For muſic we now muſt implore you,
No wedding without pipe and fiddle,
If all are not in tune,
Pray let it be ſoon,
My heart in my boſom is prancing!
If your hands ſhould unite,
To give us delight,
O that's the beſt piping and dancing,
Your plaudits to me are a treaſure,
Your ſmiles a dow'r for a Lady,
O joy to you all in full meaſure,
So wiſhes and prays Mother Brady.