Poor Molly O'Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
Drank so deeply of whiskey, 'twas thought she would die;
Her fond lover, Pat, from her
nate
cabin stole,
And stepp'd into Dublin to buy her a pie.
Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!

Tho' chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov'd well;
A pie-man pass'd near, crying 'Pies' at his
aise
;
'Here are pies of all sorts.'-'Oh! if all sorts you sell,
Then a
twopenny magpie
for me, if you
plaise
!'
Oh! poor Molly O'Flannagan!