There's a man by the name of Mike Hogan|
Who's plague-in' me out of me life,
He has a big daughter named Brigit
And he wants me to make her me wife.
She stands six foot four in her stockings
Her waist of me-self would make three
And whenever I'm standing beside her
Me elbows just reach to her knees.
Well I married that big Brigit Hogan|
And she's mine now for better or worse,
But the blessing that she should have brought me
Would appear to have changed a curse.
She strikes me and bites me and flays me
She ties me lest I run away,
This six foot four beauty's a caution
But her father was worse for to say: -
Patsy McCann will you marry me daughter,
Oh! Patsy McCann she's the girl you'll wed;
Ten golden sovereigns down I will give you,
A three legged stool and a fine feather bed.
Saint Peter, Saint Paul and Saint Paterick
All the pictures that hang on the wall,
I'll throw them all into the bargain,
If you'll marry my daughter at all.
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