The Widow Malone had a beautiful pig; No one had its equal from Cork to Killamey: And Paddy McCabe had his eye on the same; A roguish chap he, full of mischief and blarney.
This beautiful pig fairly haunted his dreams; And he swore, that, unless he was sadly mistaken, He would feast off his ribs upon St. Patrick's Day, And even the widow should not "save his bacon."
One morning the widow went out to the pen, Pail in hand, with the first streak of dawn, When, lo! it was vacant; no piggy was there: The sweet little creature was gone!
Straightway to the priest for assistance she went, Who asked her the cause of her grief. "Och! your riverince," says she, " 'tis me pig that is gone! And I think Pat McCabe is the thief."
Soon after Pat came to the priest to "confess, And told of his theft from the Widow Malone. "Take it back," says the priest, " without any delay!" "Sure I've ate it, your riverince!" says Pat with a groan.
"Ah, Pat!" says the priest, " at the great 'judgment-day,'
When you meet the widow and pig face to face, What excuse will you give for your terrible sin? I'm thinking you'll go to a very bad place."
"Will the widdy and pig both be there?" says Pat. "To be sure," says the priest, "to accuse you of sin." "Will, thin,"replies Paddy," I'll say,'Here's your pig! By St. Patrick, I'll niver molist him agin!'"