Ballad for a bad Irish accent

It’s dusk agin, and the dying wind blows soft down in old Kilkenny, by the lake there’s peace for the ducks and geese but for me – no, there isn’t any. For the hillside glows in a deepening rose ‘neath a sky unending and twilit, and it seems to my eyes like the elephant thighs of my long-lost, beautiful Violet. O the whores in Cork were all thin as storks when I walked Greene Street as a dandy, ‘til I found a-one with a multiple chin and a seventy-cent hand shandy. And we would ride like she was the tide, and I was a harbor pilot, (but more men than me couldn’t tame the sea, of my stout, untamable Violet.) “Ay, Violet,” I said, “ye shall be wed, for it’s me who ye shall be marryin’!” But Violet just grinned, and broke some wind with a smell of mushrooms and carrion, then lit for the door. “Wait!” I yelled, “you whore!” and chased her, so for a while it seemed no doubt I would wear her out – my blimp-like, beautiful Violet. O I kept up hope ‘til we reached the slope of the hill which they call Ben Bentham; as she topped the knoll, she began to roll with incredible ease and momentum. Nor did she brake when she hit the lake, heading out for a distant islet – but her legs alone weighed seventeen stone – so she drowned, my corpulent Violet. Now it’s dusk agin, and the dying wind is cooling the noon-day swelter; and it stirs the trees where I sit (for these are all that I have for shelter.) Ay, you can do what you want with Sue; you can keep your Snorkeling Jenny – but I’ll watch the deeps where my true love sleeps by the lake down in old Kilkenny.