| POOR Mary Byrne is dead, | |
| An' all the world may see | |
| Where she lies upon her bed | |
| Just as fine as quality. | |
| |
| She lies there still and white, | 5 |
| With candles either hand | |
| That'll guard her through the night: | |
| Sure she never was so grand. | |
| |
| She holds her rosary, | |
| Her hands clasped on her breast. | 10 |
| Just as dacint as can be | |
| In the habit she's been dressed. | |
| |
| In life her hands were red | |
| With every sort of toil, | |
| But they're white now she is dead, | 15 |
| An' they've sorra mark of soil. | |
| |
| The neighbours come and go, | |
| They kneel to say a prayer, | |
| I wish herself could know | |
| Of the way she's lyin' there. | 20 |
| |
| It was work from morn till night, | |
| And hard she earned her bread: | |
| But I'm thinking she's a right | |
| To be aisy now she's dead. | |
| |
| When other girls were gay, | 25 |
| At wedding or at fair, | |
| She'd be toiling all the day, | |
| Not a minyit could she spare. | |
| |
| An' no one missed her face, | |
| Or sought her in a crowd, | 30 |
| But to-day they throng the place | |
| Just to see her in her shroud. | |
| |
| The creature in her life | |
| Drew trouble with each breath; | |
| She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"— | 35 |
| But she's lovely in her death. | |
| |
| I wish the dead could see | |
| The splendour of a wake, | |
| For it's proud herself would be | |
| Of the keening that they make. | 40 |
| |
| Och! little Mary Byrne, | |
| You welcome every guest, | |
| Is it now you take your turn | |
| To be merry with the rest? | |
| |
| I'm thinking you'd be glad, | 45 |
| Though the angels make your bed, | |
| Could you see the care we've had | |
| To respect you—now you're dead. | |
