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“Schwate Widow McGee,”
Answered Larrie O'Dee,
“Now, piggy,” says she,
“Larrie's courtin' o' me,
W’illiam W. Fink (18
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY
THERE was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man;
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring
His face was no ways beautiful,
For with small-pox 'twas scarred across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.
Oh, the lump of an Irishman,
The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue--the fighting,
One of his eyes was bottle-green,
And the other eye was out, my dear;
The rattling, battling Irishman-
swash of an Irishman.
He took so much of Lundy-foot
That he used to snort and snuffle-O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
Oh, the horrible Irishman,
The thundering, blundering Irishman The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hash
His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
The boozing, bruising Irishman,
The 'toxicated IrishmanThe whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy
This was the lad the lady loved,
Like all the girls of quality;
Oh, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage IrishmanThe hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.
William Maginn (1793-1842]
A VERITABLE MYTH, TOUCHING THE CONSTELLATION OF O’RYAN, IGNORANTLY AND FALSELY SPELLED ORION
O’RYAN was a man of might
Whin Ireland was a nation,
And constant occupation.
And sartin sure his aim was;
And wouldn't mind the game laws.
St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by
O'Ryan's little houldin',
He thought he'd enther bould in.
To praich at Thurles I'm goin',
And a dhrop of Innishowen.”
“No rasher will I cook for you,
While berther is to spare, sir,
And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
And says he, “Good luck attind you,
It's up to heaven I'll sind you."
O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff
“Them tidin's is thransportin';
There's any kind of sportini?”
Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer”.
St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir.”
So, to conclude my song aright,
For fear I'd tire your patience,
Amid the constellations.
Till Mars grows jealous raally,
Charles Graham Halpine (1829-1868)
THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY
WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuice.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer; I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They all come up to me,
William Butler Yeats (1865
THE BIRTH OF ST. PATRICK
On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
Samuel Lover (1797-1864)
St. PATRICK was a gentleman,
Who came of decent people;
And on it put a steeple.
His mother was a Brady;
His uncle an O'Grady.