Oh, have you not heard of McCarty,
Who lived in Tralee, good and hearty?
He had scarce lived two score, when death
came to his door
And made a widdy of Mrs. McCarty.
Near by lived one Paddy McManus,
Why by the way was a bit of a genius;
At his trade he was good, cuttin’ figures of
Says he: I’ll go see the widdy McCarty.
Now Paddy, you know, was no ninny,
He agreed for a couple of guineas,
To cut out a stick the dead image of Micky,
And take it home to widdy McCarty.
As the widdy she’d sit by the fire
Every night before she’d retire,
She’d take the stick that was dead, put it
And lay down by the wooden McCarty.
Now Pat wasn’t long to discover
That the widdy was wanting a lover;
He made love to her strong, and you’ll say
he wasn’t wrong,
For in three days he wed the widdy McCarty.
Their friends for to see them long tarried;
To bet Pat and the widdy they carried;
She took up the stick that was cut for Micky,
And under the bed shoved wooden McCarty.
In the mornin’ when Paddy was risin’
He wanted somethin’ to set the fire blazin’;
Says she: “If you’re in want of a stick, just
cut a slice off Micky,
For I’m done with my wooden McCarty.
Written by Samuel Lover.