Thin, his doctherin' done, In a rollickin' run Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure.

By Jupiter Ammon, What jack-snipe or salmon E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!

And hark! the view-hollo!

'Tis Mack in full follow On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'.

Och, but you'd think 'Twas old Nimrod in pink, Wid his spurs cryin' c.h.i.n.k over park-wall and palin'.

_Chorus_

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye, and complexion clarety: Here's to his health, Honor and wealth!

Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity, Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way, All at once, widout disparity!

One more cheer For our docther dear, The king of his kind and the crame of all charity.

Hip, hip, hooray!

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety; Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

|Chorus|

_Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin; Powerfulest preacher, and Tenderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal._

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, Dad and the divels and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all!

Come, I venture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard, Down from Mythology Into Thayology, Troth! and Conchology if he'd the call.

_Chorus._

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick!

Still for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control; Checking the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

_Chorus._

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity?

Cannot the clargy he Irishmen too?"

_Chorus._

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT

O the quietest home in earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care; Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, And Peace had folded her pinions there.

But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

He ordered us here, and he sent us there-- Though never a word could his small lips speak-- With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land!"

But his abject slaves they turned on me; Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there, The while they worshiped with bended knee This ruthless wretch with the missing hair; For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Then I searched for help in every clime, For peace had fled from my dwelling now, Till I finally thought of old Father Time, And low before him I made my bow.

"Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?"

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim.

"I'll take the tyrant under my care: Watch what my hour-gla.s.s does to him.

The veriest humbug that ever was planned Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land."

Old Time is doing his work full well-- Much less of might does the tyrant wield; But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell, And sad tears fall as I see him yield.

Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand, I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land.

For the loss of peace I have ceased to care; Like other va.s.sals, I've learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair And hurried along without a tooth, And he rules me too with his tiny hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

_Mary E. Vandyne._

BARNEY McGEE

Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you, Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you, Wild as a bull-pup, and all of his pluck in you-- Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see!

Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity, Nose that turns up without any vulgarity, Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty-- Whoop, you're a rarity, Barney McGee!

Mellow as Tarragon, Prouder than Aragon-- Hardly a paragon, You will agree-- Here's all that's fine to you!

Books and old wine to you!

Girls be divine to you, Barney McGee!

Lucky the day when I met you unwittingly, Dining where vagabonds came and went flittingly.

Here's some _Barbera_ to drink it befittingly, That day at Silvio's, Barney McGee!

Many's the time we have quaffed our Chianti there, Listened to Silvio quoting us Dante there-- Once more to drink Nebiolo Spumante there, How we'd pitch Pommery into the sea!

There where the gang of us Met ere Rome rang of us, They had the hang of us To a degree.

How they would trust to you!

That was but just to you.

Here's o'er their dust to you, Barney McGee!

Barney McGee, when you're sober you scintillate, But when you're in drink you're the pride of the intellect; Divil a one of us ever came in till late, Once at the bar where you happened to be-- Every eye there like a spoke in you centering, You with your eloquence, blarney, and bantering-- All Vagabondia shouts at your entering, King of the Tenderloin, Barney McGee!

There's no satiety In your society With the variety Of your _esprit_.

Here's a long purse to you, And a great thirst to you!

Fate be no worse to you, Barney McGee!

Och, and the girls whose poor hearts you deracinate, Whirl and bewilder and flutter and fascinate!