Songs

I walked down thro’ Dublin city
At the hour of twelve at night,
Who should I spy but a Spanish lady,
Washing her feet by candlelight.

First she washed them,
Then she dried them,
O’er a fire of amber coal;
All my life I ne’er did see
A maid so neat about the sole.

Whack for the toora loora lady
Whack for the toora loora lee
Whack for the toora loora lady
Whack for the toora loora lee

As I came back thro’ Dublin city
At the hour of half-past eight,
Who should I spy but a Spanish lady
Brushing her hair in broad day light.

First she tossed it,
Then she brushed it,
On her lap was a silver comb;
In all my life I ne’er did see
So fair a maid since I did roam.

As I went down thro’ Dublin city
When the sun began to set,
Who should I see but a Spanish lady
Catching a moth in a golden net;

When she saw me
Then she fled me,
Lifting her petticoat over the knee;
In all my life I ne’er did spy
A maid so blithe as the Spanish lady!