When first I saw sweet Peggy, ’T was on a market day: A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; And when that hay was blooming grass And decked with flowers of spring No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his ould poll, And looked after the low-backed car. In battle’s wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death in warlike cars; While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town, As right and left they fly; While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far,— For the doctor’s art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggy round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of Love! While she sits in the low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin’, As she sits in the low-backed car. O, I ’d rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore. And a lady for my bride; For a lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste,— While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar; O, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh,— Though it beat in a low-backed car!
The Low-Backed Car
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