’Tis youth and folly Makes young men marry, So here, my love, I’ll No longer stay. What can’t be cured, sure, Must be injured, sure, So I’ll go to Amerikay

My love she’s handsome, My love she’s bony: She’s like good whisky When it is new; But when ’tis old And growing cold It fades and dies like The mountain dew.

The consciousness of the warm sunny city outside his window and the tender tremors with which his father’s voice festooned the strange sad happy air, drove off all the mists of the night’s ill humour from Stephen’s brain. He got up quickly to dress and, when the song had ended, said: