Reproach to the Pipe

Taken down from a man named William O'Ryan, of Newcastle,
Upper Galway.

I've a story to tell you,
My little Duideen,
As ugly a story
As ever was seen;
The days are gone by
When I held my head high,
And that this is your doing,
You cannot deny.
It is you, without doubt,
Stole my means and my wealth,
My name and my fortune,
My friends and my health;
But if only I were
In new lands far from Clare,
I'd be scraping and saving
With the best of them there!
While you are well-filled,
Cleaned up, and kept trim,
There's no bread on my plate
And no strength in my limb;
 Were I hung as a scarecrow,
In the fields over-night,
Sure, not only the birds
But my friends would take flight!
I might buy a laced hat
For your handsome young head,
That would pass with O'Hara,
When all's done and said;
But to you 'tis no odds
Though I fast day and night,
Your mouth is wide open
Still asking its light.
When I go out to Mass
My best coat is in slashes,
And quite half my food
Has been burnt in the ashes;
My heels may go cold,
'Tis for you, I allege,
The tobacconist's shop
Has my breeches in pledge!
The time that poor Nora
Thought me down at the loom,
Throwing the shuttle
Or doing a turn;
I'd be lighting my pipe
About old Joseph's door;
Discoursing and drinking
An hour or more.
 O, my little duideen,
My little duideen,
You're the cunningest rogue
That ever was seen!
But I'm done with you quite,
Off, out of my sight!
With O'Kelly the weaver
I'm away at daylight!