Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.

A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild-raging sea.

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

'That 's eight times to-day that you 've kissed me before.' 'Then here goes another,' says he, 'to make sure, For there 's luck in odd numbers,' says Rory O'Mo…