As I went out through Dublin City
At the hour of twelve oґclock at night
Who should I see but a Spanish lady
Washing her feet by candle light
First she washed them and then she dried them
Over a fire of ambry coals
In all my life I never did see
A maid so sweet about the soles
Whack fol the toor a loor a laddy
Whack fol the toor a loor a lay
Whack fol the toor a loor a laddy
Whack fol the toor a loor a lay
I stopped to look but the watchman passed
Says he, «Young fellow, the night is late
Along with you home or I will wrestle you
Straight away through the Bridewell gate»
I threw a look to the Spanish lady
Hot as the fire of ambry coals
In all my life I never did see
A maid so sweet about the soles
As I walked back through Dublin City
As the dawn of day was oґer
Who should I see but the Spanish lady
When I was weary and footsore