In the merry Month of May by the banks of Killyleagh,
When the goose-gabs and the nettles were in bloom,
I a-spied a fair young maid and unto her I said,
"Would you let me roul' your little ball of yarn?"

"Oh, no, kind Sir," says she. "You're a stranger unto me,
And besides, I have no other charms;
So, get home to Hell to those who have money and fine clothes
And will let you roul' theit little ball of yarn."

So I set that maiden down, laid her gently on the groun',
Not intendin' for to do her any harm;
Then I whispered in her ear, "You're my ducky, you're my dear."
And she let me roul' her little ball of yarn.

Well, now a year has passed, and I met that maid, alas!
She had a darlin' babby on each knee.
"Ah, now then, pretty miss, did you ever think of this
When you let me roul' your little ball of yarn?"

"Come all you maidens young and free, hear my story, list to me,
And don't be taken in by young men's charms!
Be like the blackbird and the thrush and keep one hand well roun' your brush,
And the other on your little ball of yarn!"

Never ceases to raise a laugh at concerts.
Roddy