It's true I've got no shirts to wear;
It's true my butcher's bill is due;
It's true my prospects all look blue-

But don't let that unsettle you!

Never you mind!

Roll on !

[It rolls on.

W. S. GILBERT.

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.

So, success attend St. Patrick's fist,

For he's a saint so clever;

Oh! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, And bothered them forever!

The Wicklow hills are very high,

And so's the hill of Howth, sir;

SAINT PATRICK.

But there's a hill, much bigger still,
Much higher nor them both, sir:
'Twas on the top of this high hill

St. Patrick preached his sarmint
That drove the frogs into the bogs,
And banished all the varmint.

There's not a mile in Ireland's isle
Where dirty varmin musters,
But where he put his dear fore-foot,
And murdered them in clusters.
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop,
Slap-dash into the water;

And the snakes committed suicide
To save themselves from slaughter.

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue
He charmed with sweet discourses,
And dined on them at Killaloe

In soups and second courses.

Where blind-worms crawling in the grass
Disgusted all the nation,

He gave them a rise, which opened their eyes To a sense of their situation.

No wonder that those Irish lads

Should be so gay and frisky,

For sure St. Pat he taught them that,

As well as making whiskey;

No wonder that the saint himself
Should understand distilling,
Since his mother kept a shebeen-shop
In the town of Enniskillen.

Oh, was I but so fortunate

As to be back in Munster,

"Tis I'd be bound that from that ground I never more would once stir. For there St. Patrick planted turf,

And plenty of the praties,

With pigs galore, ma gra, ma'store,
And cabbages-and ladies.
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist,
For he's a saint so clever;

Oh, he gave the snakes and toads a twist,
And bothered them forever!

HENRY BENNETT.

HOSPITALITY.

When friends are at your hearthstone met,

Sweet courtesy has done its most

If you have made each guest forget
That he himself is not the host.

T. B. ALDRICH.

OLD GRIMES.

THE WISE MAN.

There is a man in our town

Who is so wondrous wise,
He knows he cannot sing at all,
And so he never tries.

He also knows he has no wit,
Like many funny folks,
And so he never bothers me,
By getting off his jokes.

And when he has no word to say,
He's wise enough, though young,
To sit about while others talk,
And hold his little tongue.

JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

OLD GRIMES.

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man
We never shall see more;

He used to wear a long, black coat,

All buttoned down before.

79

His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray,
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burned;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all,
He knew no base design;

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes

He passed securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown;
He wore a double-breasted vest,
The stripes ran up and down.