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JERRY MAHONEY'S (K. O. S. P.) PATRICK'S DAY.

A FIG for yer Washington's Birtday,

Away wid yer Fourt uv July, -

The fun uv yer neetion's Thanksgivin',

Be jabers! 't is all in yer oiy.

What hero is wurth the comparin'

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Wid Pathrick, the Oirishman's jy?

And who dare the laurels be sharin'

Wid him, that foine broth uv a by?

I was up wid the sun, bright and airly,

Ere the lazy shpalpeen was a dawnin';

Yis, 't was dark, and the bands they a playin'

"Seent Patherick's Dee in the Mornin'."

And I dhressed in me green and me yillow,

And gurded me sword by me side;

And niver a nater young fillow

In that whole great prochession did ride.

And swate Biddy Murphy who saw us, -

And troth! she's a darlint, is she! -

Towld me cousin that Jerry Mahoney

Was an ilegant K. O. S. P.

We shtarted, the bands was all playin',

The min at the College hurrahed;

And the horses was prancin' and neighin',

But gorra! the saddle was hard.

How they cheered us, and we proudly trampin',

I' faix! 't was shuparior sport;

And the ribbons and handkerchiefs flyin'

Of ivry swate gurl in "The Port."

Thin over the bridge to the city,

Wid the wind piercing shtraight through me bones;

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, -

'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.

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