The American Songster, Song

My sweet pretty Mog, you're as soft as a bog, And wild as a kitten, and wild as a kitten, Those eyes in your face—(O pity my case) Poor Dermot hath smitten, poor Dermot hath smitten. For softer than silk, and as fair as new milk, Your lilly white hand is, your lilly white hand is: Your shape's like a pail, from your head to your tail, You're strait as a wand is, you're strait as a wand is.

Your lips red as cherries, and your curling hair is As black as the devil, as black as the devil: Your breath is as sweet too as any patotoe, Or orange from Seville, or orange from Seville. When dress'd in your boddice, you trip like a goddess, So nimbly, so frisky; so nimbly, so frisky: A kiss on your cheek, 'tis so soft and so sleek, Would warm me like whisky, would warm me like whisky;

I grunt and I pine, and sob like a swine, Because you're so cruel, because you're so cruel: No rest can I take, and asleep or awake I dream of my jewel, I dream of my jewel. Your hate then give over, nor Dermot your lover, So cruelly handle, so cruelly handle! Or Dermot must die, like a pig in a stye, Or snuff of a candle, or snuff of a candle,