Irish traditional song lyrics — collected by Beer Belly Band.
In a mean abode in the Shankill road lived a man named William Bloat
Who had a wife, the bane of life, who always got his goat
So one day at dawn, with her night dress on, he slit her bloody throat
With a razor gash, he settled her hash, and never was crime so quick
But the steady drip on the pillow slip, of her life’s blood made him sick
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor, was clotted, and cold, and thick
Now he was glad he had done what he had, as she lay there stiff and still
Till suddenly awe of the angry law, filled his soul with an awful chill
So to finish the fun, so well begun, he decided himself to kill
So he took the sheet from his wife’s cold feet, and twisted it into a rope
And he hanged himself, from the pantry self, ’twas an easy end, let’s hope
With his dying breath and he facing death, he solemnly cursed the pope
But the strangest true of this whole concern is only just beginning
He went to Hell, but his wife got well and she’s still alive and sinnin’
For the razor blade was German made, but the rope was Belfast linen