Tim The Dragoon

Be aisy an' list to a chune That's sung of bowld Tim the Dragoon— Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss To be stalin' a kiss, Or a brace, by the light of the moon— Aroon— Wid a wink at the Man in the Moon! Rest his sowl where the daisies grow thick; For he's gone from the land of the quick: But he's still makin' love To the leddies above, An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick— Avick— Niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick! 'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore, And 'ull thrate him to whisky galore: For they 've only to sip But the tip of his lip An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more— Asthore— By the powers, they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore!'