| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895. |
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| Widow Machree |
| | | Samuel Lover (1797–1868) |
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| WIDOW Machree, it ’s no wonder you frown, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
| Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
| How alter’d your air, | 5 |
| With that close cap you wear— | |
| ’T is destroying your hair | |
| Which should be flowing free; | |
| Be no longer a churl | |
| Of its black silken curl, | 10 |
| Och hone! Widow Machree! | |
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| Widow Machree, now the summer is come, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree, | |
| When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum? | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | 15 |
| See the birds go in pairs, | |
| And the rabbits and hares— | |
| Why even the bears | |
| Now in couples agree; | |
| And the mute little fish, | 20 |
| Though they can’t spake, they wish, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
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| Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree, | |
| To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, | 25 |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
| Sure the shovel and tongs | |
| To each other belongs, | |
| And the kettle sings songs | |
| Full of family glee; | 30 |
| While alone with your cup, | |
| Like a hermit, you sup, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
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| And how do you know, with the comforts I ’ve towld, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree, | 35 |
| But you ’re keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld? | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
| With such sins on your head | |
| Sure your peace would be fled, | |
| Could you sleep in your bed | 40 |
| Without thinking to see | |
| Some ghost or some sprite, | |
| That would wake you each night, | |
| Crying, “Och hone! Widow Machree”? | |
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| Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree, | 45 |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
| And with my advice, faith I wish you’d take me, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | |
| You’d have me to desire | |
| Then to sit by the fire, | 50 |
| And sure Hope is no liar | |
| In whispering to me, | |
| That the ghosts would depart, | |
| When you’d me near your heart, | |
| Och hone! Widow Machree. | 55 |
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