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Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight |
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With people here working by day and by night |
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They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat |
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But there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street |
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At least when I asked them, that's what I was told |
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So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold |
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But for all that I've found there, I might as well be |
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In the place where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea |
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I believe that when writin' a wish you expressed |
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As to how the fine ladies of London were dressed |
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But if you'll believe me, when asked to a ball |
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They don't wear no tops to their dresses at all |
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Oh, I've seen them myself and you could not in truth |
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Tell if they were bound for a ball or a bath |
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Don't be startin' them fashions now, Mary McRee, |
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In the place where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea |
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There's beautiful girls here, oh, never you mind |
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Beautiful shapes Nature never designed |
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Lovely complexions of roses and cream |
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But let me remark with regard to the same |
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That if at those roses you venture to sit |
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The colors might all come away on your lip |
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So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me |
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In the place where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea |
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You remember young Diddy McClaren, of course |
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But he's over here with the rest of the force |
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I saw him one day as he stood on the strand |
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Stopped all the traffic with a wave of his hand |
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As we were talking of days that are gone |
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The whole town of London stood there to look on |
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But for all his great powers, he's wishful like me |
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To be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea |
