"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, "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: 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; 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 Irishman The 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 Irishman The 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 And constant occupation. He had an ould militia gun, And sartin sure his aim was; St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by And, as the saint felt wake and dhry, "No rasher will I cook for you, O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff - Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer"-- So, to conclude my song aright, For fear I'd tire your patience, Charles Graham Halpine [1829-1868] THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney, I passed my brother and cousin: I read in my book of songs I bought at the Sligo fair. When we come at the end of time, He will smile on the three old spirits, For the good are always the merry, And the merry love to dance: And when the folk there spy 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, And some blamed the babby--and some blamed the clock- 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, That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two, Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine, That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!" 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; His father was a Gallagher; |