Home  »  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895  »  Widow Machree

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Samuel Lover 1797–1868

Widow Machree


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,

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,

Och hone! Widow Machree!

Widow Machree, now the summer is come,

Och hone! Widow Machree,

When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?

Och hone! Widow Machree.

See the birds go in pairs,

And the rabbits and hares—

Why even the bears

Now in couples agree;

And the mute little fish,

Though they can’t spake, they wish,

Och hone! Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, and when winter comes in,

Och hone! Widow Machree,

To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,

Och hone! Widow Machree.

Sure the shovel and tongs

To each other belongs,

And the kettle sings songs

Full of family glee;

While alone with your cup,

Like a hermit, you sup,

Och hone! Widow Machree.

And how do you know, with the comforts I ’ve towld,

Och hone! Widow Machree,

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

Without thinking to see

Some ghost or some sprite,

That would wake you each night,

Crying, “Och hone! Widow Machree”?

Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,

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,

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.