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.