I will live in Ringsend

With a red-headed whore,

And the fan-light gone in

Where it lights the hall-door;

And listen each night

For her querulous shout,

As at last she streels in

And the pubs empty out.

To soothe that wild breast

With my old-fangled songs,

Till she feels it redressed

From inordinate wrongs,

Imagined, outrageous,

Preposterous wrongs,

Till peace at last comes,

Shall be all I will do,

Where the little lamp blooms

Like a rose in the stew;

And up the back-garden

The sound comes to me

Of the lapsing, unsoilable,

Whispering sea.

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