Th’Rogue of Killarney & Cork
From Killarney’s shore to the bays of Cork
There rode from town to town
A handsome lad, whose looks were of the roguish sort
That seemed to loosen every gown
And as he winds his way around
He’s followed by what to th’eye appears a cloud
But not of the mist and rainy sort
But upon closer look, a flock of storks
They called to him from on high
We have your fifty unborn children, m’lord
But he didst take one look upon those crying babes and simply sighed
Dismounted, and fell upon his sword