Cordaylia of the alley [an Irish song]

              At the corner o' the alley sits Cordalia McNally,
At the corner o' the alley, where the people come and go,
In a penitent procession, passin' to and from confession,
In the ould church of St. Joseph, that was builded long ago.
Oh, 'tis well she knows there's many, has the charitable penny
More convayient to their fingers then, than any other day,
An' her tongue it is so sooth'rin', an' so mastherful deludth'rin'
There are mortial few whatever she'll be lettin' get away
Fur oh, the Irish eyes o' her! They twinkie at ye so,
Ye hate to think the sighs o' her, are part o' the disguise o' her,
So faix, she has yer penny gathered in before ye know.

There's small use in walkin' fashter, juist to hurry in a past her.
Shure, she'll let ye go unnoticed, wid yer little load o' sin.
But oh man, she has ye spotted, an' yer penny good as potted,
Fur she knows that ye'll be softer comin' out than goin' in!
For there's nothin' but good nature in the m'anest Irish crayture,
Whin he feels the sowl inside o' him is cleansed of iv'ry blot.
Should Cordaylia thin address ye wid her sootherin' "God bless ye!"
'Tis not you will dare to judge if she's deservin' it or not.
Fur oh, the Irish eyes of her! They twinkie at ye so,
Ye hate to think the sighs of her, are part o' the disguise o' her,
So faix, she has yer penny gathered in before ye know.