Oh Mary, this London's a wonderful sight,
With the people here working by day and by night.
They don't sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat;
But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the street
At least when I asked them that's what I was told;
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold.
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I believe when writing, a wish you expressed,
As to how the fine ladies of london were dressed.
Well if you believe me when asked to a ball,
Why they don't wear no backs to their dresses at all.
Oh I've seen them myself, and you could not, in truth,
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath.
Don't be starting them fashions now, Mary Machree,
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
You remember young Peter O'Loughlin of course,
Well now he is here at the head of the force.
I met him today; I was crossing the Strand,
And he stopped the whole street
With one wave of his hand;
And there we stood talking of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on,
But for all those great powers he's wishful like me,
To be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.
There's beautiful girls here, och, never mind,
With beautiful shapes nature never designed,
And lovely complexions, all roses and cream,
Which O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same,
That if at those roses you ventured to sip,
The colours might all come away on your lip.
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me,
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

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