While the saddle grew harder, - O, pity!
What jolts on thim tirrible shtones.
We marched, and we whaled, and we counter -
Marched common and av'nue and shtrate;
Till we halted to take a colleetion, -
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'T was divil a little I ate.
But the rist I (bad luck!) disremimber,
Save uv whiskey a suppin' a dhrop,
And a batin' uv Sandy Macimber,
Behind some grane blinds in a shop.
So to-dee I'm not wurkin', for Sandy
Has rised a black bunch on me oiy,
And I feel kind o'shtiff loike, all over,
Wid the horse, and he shteppin' so hoigh.
And Biddy, I saw her the mornin'
A walkin' wid Micky Macgee;
But Micky, I'll soon give him warnin'; -
So here's to Seent Patherick's Dee.
S. O. L.