'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'More.

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

As she sat in the low-backed car The man at the turn-pike bar Never asked for the toll But just rubbed his auld poll And looked after the low-backed car.

Sure my love is all crost Like a bud in the frost And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 't is dhrames and not slape that comes into my head!