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'

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.