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"I swore it," says he, “be the sowl of Saint Paythur, A nate little daughter should be me next son; But since ye have chosen a maskelin nayther,

I'm bound to disown ye, as sure as a gun!

"I hope ye will mate wid the price of transgression,
Whativer the craytures ye tarry among;

And mark me, me lad! 'tis me private impression
Ye niver will die 'till the day ye are hoong!"

“Be quiet, me angil,” says Bridget, me mother,

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"Tis aisy to talk when the mischief is done;

Who knows but some day ye may want for a brother, And thin ye'll be glad that yere girl is a son!"

(The wimmin are prophets, wheriver ye find 'em; For many's the time I have help'd me poor dad To see the door latchet directly behind him,

And sometimes to walk-whin the whiskey was bad!)

The way I was bate from the night till the mornin',
And thin from the mornin' again till to bed,
Should be unto aich sivinth son a sad warnin'
Against gettin' born till his father is dead.

But batins are said to agree wid some people;

And sure they were blessin's that caused me to grow Until I was almost as tall as a staple,

And only fell short be an acre or so.

Wan mornin' whin I was ingaged in the gardin,
Me father came up wid his pipe in his mout;
And "Barney," says he, "I must crave for yere pardin;
But tell me, ye spalpeen, what are ye about?"

""Tis hoein' the praties," says I, wid affection;
Says he, ""Tis a mighty big mout ye have got;
And sure ye'd devour, widout frind or connection,
As mooch as would grow on a tin-acre lot.

"Me farrum, ye know, is not quite so extinsive,
And, though I'm as fond of ye now as me breath,
I'm fear'd, as yere appetite's so comprehinsive,
Ye'll stay here to ate till yere starvin' to death."

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"Yer servant," said I, like a dignified crayture,
And hoe for yersilf in the future," says I;
"For since I am sthrong as yersilf in me stature,
I don't mind remarkin' to ye that ye lie!

"The wurruld invites me to walk on her bussum,
And sthrive for a place in the council of state;
And niver has Fortune a low-hangin' blossom,
But I, like a bee, will extract all its shwate."

"Thin walk on the bussum, me darlin'," he groonted, "But mind that ye niver git down in the mout; Nor go to the land where an Irishman's hoonted By oogly know-nothings that's lurkin' about."

I scorn'd to reply to the spacious suggestion;
But put me wardrobe in the crown of me hat;
And, kissing me mother, to aid me digestion,
Set out on me thravels as still as a cat.

Ye mind there's a kingdom called Donnybrook famous,
'Twas there that I wint an adventure to mate:
And whin I arrived I was weary and lame as
A baste of the plough wid no legs to his fait.

Bad luck to the fortune that carried me in it!
And sure 'tis the mem'ry that gives me a pain ;
For scarce had I been in the tavern a minute
Whin I fell a victim to Widow MacShane !

'Twas she was the landlord that thrated me dacent,
And put me to bed wid a brick in me head;
And put some more bricks in a bottle adjacent
To kape out the cowld whin me arrum was bled.

And be the same token I came for to love her,
And ask'd her to thry the high-menial line;
She called me an in-sin-i-va-tin' young rover,"
And put her big mout on a fayture of mine!

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Och murther an' ounds! was the divil behind me,
To blind me affection an' worry me brain?
Or was it the coorse of me father resigned me
Into the fat arrums of Widow MacShane?

And sure she had childers, the wildest young divils
That iver disgraced a respictable place;

And wan of me first matrimonial evils

Was havin' their scratches all over me face!

"Me darlin'," I said to their illigant mother,
"The childers are rayther too forward," says I;
Whin grabbin' a poker, or somethin' or other,
She gave me a whack in the small of me thigh!

Because I complain'd of sooch singular tratement,
She made it appear most uncommonly plain
That I was a baste, whin compared with the statement
Of all the shwate virtues of Misther MacShane!

Och! sure sooch a life as I led wid the crayture
Would make the most patient of madmen insane!
And often convaynient I found to my nature
To invy the ghosht of departed MacShane!

If I didn't wear an ould shirt for a saison,
And kape it remarkably rigid and clane,
That woman would niver be timpted to raison
But talk'd of the nateness of Misther MacShane!

Whiniver the night spread abroad her dark pinions, Thim childers would chatter like monkeys in pain; And thin I was call'd from me drame-land dominions To comfort the spalpeens of Misther MacShane!

If coxcombs and guardsmen made love to me woman,
And I, in me innocence, chose to complain,
She'd intimate sthrongly that I was inhuman,

And mintion me contrast wid Misther MacShane!

If I took a shillin' to get me some whiskey,
And didn't remimber to stale it again,

Be all of the Pow'rs but she'd grow mighty frisky,
And threaten to send me to- Misther MacShane!

I niver went out of the house in the mornin'
Until it was night of the avening befoor;
Because she would give me a dilicate warnin'
To manage the childers and scrub up the floor!

And whin I would vinture to spake like an aiqual,
And tell her she acted confoundedly mane;
She'd tell me a sthory, and tell me the saiquel!
The life and the death of wan Misther MacShane!

I lived like a baste that is kill'd be its master,
Until I was taken wid prisince of brain;
And thin, niver lightning could thravel mooch faster
Than I from the relic of Misther MacShane!

I came to this coonthry of freedom and progress;
And only had been here a couple of hours,
Whin I was elected a mimber of Congress

Or daycintly ask'd to be sooch, be the Pow'rs!

But I shall go back to me gim of the owshun
As soon as me widow is married again,

To give a free vint to me pow'rful emoshun,

And dance on the grave of ould Misther MacShane!

Robert Henry Newell

("Orpheus C. Kerr ")

ROBINSON CRUSOE

The night was thick and hazy
When the Piccadilly Daisy

Carried down the crew and Captain in the sea;
And I think the water drowned 'em,

For they never, never found 'em,

And I know they didn't come ashore with me.

Oh, 'twas very sad and lonely
When I found myself the only
Population on this cultivated shore;
But I've made a little tavern
In a rocky little cavern,

And I sit and watch for people at the door.

I spent no time in looking

For a girl to do my cooking,

As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews;

But I had that fellow Friday

Just to keep the tavern tidy,

And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

I have a little garden

That I'm cultivating lard in,

As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;
For I live on toasted lizards,

Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards,

And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie.

The clothes I had were furry,

And it made me fret and worry

When I found the moths were eating off the hair; And I had to scrape and sand 'em,

And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,

Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion

In a family excursion

With the few domestic animals you see;
And we take along a carrot

As refreshments for the parrot,
And a little cup of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather as we travel
Bits of moss and dirty gravel,
And we chip off little specimens of stone,
And we carry home as prizes
Funny bugs of handy sizes,

Just to give the day a scientific tone.

If the roads are wet and muddy,
We remain at home and study,

For the Goat is very clever at a sum —
And the Dog, instead of fighting,
Studies ornamental writing,

While the cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven,

And we rise again at seven;

And I wish to call attention, as I close,
To the fact that all the scholars

Are correct about their collars,

And particular in turning out their toes.

Charles Edward Carryl

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