'Finns, they're witches,' said Murphy, ''tis born in 'em maybe,
The same as fits, an' freckles, an' follerin' the sea,
An' ginger 'air in some folks . . . an' likin' beer in me.'

'Finns, they're witches,' said Murphy, 'an' powerful strong ones too . . .
They'll whistle a wind from nowhere, an' a storm out o' the blue
'Ud sink this 'ere old hooker, an' all her bloomin' crew.'

'Finns, they're witches,' said Murphy, rubbing his hairy chin,
'An' some says witchcraft's bumkum, an' some it's deadly sin,
But . . . there ain't no 'arm as I see in standin' well with a Finn.'