A promise made to Malachi I think not of things of beauty as splendidIn prayer one day, to God I see little joy in another's fun.That the horrors of Armageddon
Would be spared our native sod. But on sleeping, lighten will my mood So look, all of you sinners And joy again in things Ill see When Ireland is taken by the sea, Our humour cannot always be good,Prepare in seven years to meet your doomSmiling we cannot always be.And repentant let you be!