An' Fox he whipped her up,
An' pit her in his bag,
An' off he started all alone,
Him and his little dag.
All day he tracked the wood
Up hill an' down again;
An' wid him, shmotherin' in the bag,
The little small Rid Hin.
Sorra a know she knowed
Awhere she was that day;
Says she, "I'm biled an' ate up, shure,
An' what'll be to pay?"
Thin she betho't hersel',
An' tuk her schissors out,
An' shnipped a big hole in the bag,
So she could look about.
An' 'fore ould Fox could think
She lept right out--she did,
An' thin picked up a great big shtone,
An' popped it in instid.
An' thin she rins off home,
Her outside door she locks;
Thinks she, "You see you don't have me,
You crafty, shly ould Fox."
An' Fox, he tugged away
Wid the great big hivy shtone,
Thimpin' his shoulders very bad
As he wint in alone.
An' whin he came in sight
O' his great din o' rocks,
Jist watchin' for him at the door
He shpied ould mither Fox.
"Have ye the pot a-bilin'?"
Says he to ould Fox thin;
"Shure an' it is, me child," says she;
"Have ye the small Rid Hin?"
"Yes, jist here in me bag,
As shure as I shtand here;
Open the lid till I pit her in:
Open it--niver fear."
So the rashkill cut the sthring,
An' hild the big bag over;
"Now when I shake it in," says he,
"Do ye pit on the cover.
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