Samuel Lover (1797 – 1868)
Irish songwriter, novelist, as well as a painter of portraits, chiefly miniatures.
Page 1 of 1
A baby was sleeping,
Its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild-raging sea.
"That 's eight times to-day that you 've kissed me before."
"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure,
For there 's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs.
As she sat in the low-backed car
The man at the turn-pike bar
Never asked for the toll
But just rubbed his auld poll
And looked after the low-backed car.
And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me.
For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.
Sure my love is all crost
Like a bud in the frost
And there's no use at all in my going to bed,
For 't is dhrames and not slape that comes into my head!
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.
For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.
Page 1 of 1