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“Schwate Widow McGee,”

Answered Larrie O'Dee,
“If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs,
Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs?
Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the

cracks
Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez swingin' yer axe;
An'a bobbin' yer head an a-shtompin' yer fate,
Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,
A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm,
When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!"

“Now, piggy,” says she,

“Larrie's courtin' o' me,
Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you;
So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do:
For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout;
But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.
Now, Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig
By tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!"
“Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he.
And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.

W’illiam W. Fink (18

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY

THERE was a lady lived at Leith,

A lady very stylish, man;
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman-

A nasty, ugly Irishman,

A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring

Irishman.

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,

rioting Irishman.

One of his eyes was bottle-green,

And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear.
Oh, the great big Irishman,

The rattling, battling Irishman-
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering

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

ing Irishman.

His name was a terrible name, indeed,

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch
He'd not rest till he filled it full again.

The boozing, bruising Irishman,

The 'toxicated IrishmanThe whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy

Irishman.

This was the lad the lady loved,

Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity.

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]

IRISH ASTRONOMY

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,
But poachin' was his heart's delight

And constant occupation.
He had an ould militia gun,

And sartin sure his aim was;
He gave the keepers many a run

And wouldn't mind the game laws.

St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by

O'Ryan's little houldin',
And, as the saint felt wake and dhry,

He thought he'd enther bould in.
"O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick!

To praich at Thurles I'm goin',
So let me have a rasher quick,

And a dhrop of Innishowen.”

“No rasher will I cook for you,

While berther is to spare, sir,
But here's a jug of mountain dew,

And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,

And says he, “Good luck attind you,
And, when you're in your windin' sheet,

It's up to heaven I'll sind you."

O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff

“Them tidin's is thransportin';
But may I ax your saintship if

There's any kind of sportini?”
St. Pathrick said, "A Lion's there,

Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer”.
“Bedad," says Mick, “the huntin's rare;

St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir.”

So, to conclude my song aright,

For fear I'd tire your patience,
You'll see O'Ryan any night

Amid the constellations.
And Venus follows in his track,

Till Mars grows jealous raally,
But, faith, he fears the Irish knack
Of handling the shillaly.

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.

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When we come at the end of time,

To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,

But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,

Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,

And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,

They all come up to me,
With “Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.

William Butler Yeats (1865

THE BIRTH OF ST. PATRICK

On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born,
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock,
And some blamed the babby--and some blamed the clock-
Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know
If the child was too fast, or the clock was too slow.
Now the first faction-fight in owld Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday:
Some fought for the eighth-for the ninth more would die,
And who wouldn't see right, sure they blackened his eye!
At last, both the factions so positive grew,
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two,
Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,
Said, “No one could have two birthdays, but a twins."
Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine,
Don't be always dividin'--but sometimes combine;
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,
So let that be his birthday.”—“Amen,” says the clerk.
“If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show
That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!”
Then they all got blind dhrunk-which complated their

bliss,
And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

Samuel Lover (1797-1864)

SAINT PATRICK

St. PATRICK was a gentleman,

Who came of decent people;
He built a church in Dublin town,

And on it put a steeple.
His father was a Gallagher;

His mother was a Brady;
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy,

His uncle an O'Grady.

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