Westland Row (The Rocky Road To Dublin)

    Every Sunday there's a throng
    Of pretty girls, who trot along
    In a pious, breathless state
    (They are nearly always late)
    To the Chapel, where they pray
    For the sins of Saturday.

    They have frocks of white and blue,
    Yellow sashes they have too,
    And red ribbons show each head
    Tenderly is ringleted;
    And the bell rings loud, and the
    Railway whistles urgently.

    After Chapel they will go,
    Walking delicately slow,
    Telling still how Father John
    Is so good to look upon,
    And such other grave affairs
    As they thought of during prayers.