THE IRISH Lasses LETTER: OR, Her Earnest Request to TEAGUE her DEAR-JOY.  
To an Excellent New TUNE.  

I.  
TO my Dear-Joy dis Letter I writ,  
for a Return as soon as you can,  
Why did you leave Kilkany to Fight,  
valiantly like de brave Souldier-man?  
Ever since we have been partend,  
never a day of Joy can I see;  
I still am Tormented, and can't be contented,  
O my fine Teague, A-gra magh cree.   

II.  
In Usquebaugh thy Health do I Drink,  
with whom I have so long been in League,  
Oh! by my should, I am ready to sink,  
every time I think on my Teague:  
Sure dere's none alive can blame me,  
dat all my Care and Sorrow's for d'ye;  
I fear in de Battle, when Cannons do Rattle,  
My Teague should be slain, A-gra magh cree.   

III.  
would I had gone wid d'ye my Dear-Joy,  
better it is den Languishing here,  
Dat I might help dy Foes to destroy,  
willing I am to die wid my Dear:  
Through de World I'd freely wander,  
so dat I might have dy Company;  
Now here in Kilkany, my Sorrows are many,  
For want of my Teague, A-gra magh cree.   

IV.  
Here am I left an Innocent Maid,  
my Dearest Joy, in Grief to abide;  
O dat I might have been dy Comrade,  
every day to march be dy side:  
Wid my Musket on my Shoulder,  
in my conceit I happy should be;  
By Chreest and St. Patrick, I'd make dy foes heart ache,  
I'd venture my Life for my Gra magh cree.   

V.  
Dost tow not know, I am of dat stamp,  
dat will not fear a glittering sword,  
I can as freely follow de Camp,  
as de young page. his sovereign Lord,  
While de Trumpets dey are Sounding;  
I Shall rejoice Love being wid de,  
Derefore now pitty my sorrowful Ditty;  
sand for me over, my gra magh cree.   

VI.  
If dat Dou wilt, but give me dy grant,  
den Vou'd I hasten to d'ye wid speed,  
'tis not de Foes dat ever can daunt,  
I dat am of de true marshal breed,  
Do de Cannons roar like Thunder,  
I'd never fear, Love, being wid d'ye;  
For here I am grieved, and can't be relieved,  
except I come to my own gra magh cree.   

VII.  
And in dy Tent my Teague I'll embraish,  
when dat we are returned from fight,  
Nay and thou shalt make Bush on my faish,  
tashting of more deign common delight,  
sand me derefore now an Ansher,  
whether or no I shall come to d'ye,  
Do but dis favour, I'd love d'ye for ever.  
my Dearest Teague, a-gra magh cree.    

With Allowance.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in pie-corner.