In Boston’s fair city, where girls are so pretty
I first heard the poems of sweet Molly Malone.
She wheeled a wheel-barrow,
through streets broad and narrow
Crying: trochees and spondees, a-live, a-live oh.
Some editors’d greet her, but none who liked meter
And so with rejections she wandered alone.
They weighed down her barrow,
and cut like a harrow
Crying: trochees and spondees, a-live, a-live oh.
She died so despondent, for each correspondent
Replied that he liked his verse blankish and free.
Now her ghost wheels her barrow,
and its cry chills the marrow
Crying: trochees and spondees, a-live, a-live oh.
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