An' fare 'ave yer bin to? An' phat is it, Terrence?
A boycycle is it! An' phat is it for?
To roide on ashtraddle! go lang wid yer, Terrence,
Yer'd break ivery bone in yer back on thur floor.

Now don't yer be thryin' yer tricks wid yer mother;
An' phy wan't ye home to yer supper before?
An' me wid thur babby, an' only yer brother
To draw all thur wather an' wait on thur sthore.

An' phat is that thing hanging there in thur middle?
A lantern! faix, hang it up over thur door!
'Twill loight up thur notice as foine as a fiddle:
“Here's Mrs. O'Flaherty's Grocery Sthore.”

Yer hans are that filthy, an' black beyont menshun;
An' how did it come as your breeches wuz tore?
The boycycle did it! thur divil's invention!
I'll not have yer roidin' thur thing anny more.

Get down from there, Terrence! come back yer young villin!
Och, mother av Moses! an' ain't there no law
To punish a poor widdy's son, as ain't willin'
To sthop wid his mother, an' wait on thur sthore?