Judge — March 16, 1895 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

170 T. PATRICK’S DAY. Tree hunderd an’ sixty-four days in a year He's jist an American mon, me dear, Poleecemin or labrick or overseer, As quoiet as iver ye see. Thin over his soil comes the scint av the bogs, Which gintly the heart of an Oirishnian jogs, ‘An’ he flings his discretion away to the dogs An’ goes out for a bit av a spree, Machree. Bedad, he’s a soight thin to see. {\ T'ree hunderd an’ sixty-four days, © whisht ! B Yese moight bat him down wid the heel av yure 7 fisht, An’ thin comes a day thot he’s shpilin’ jist For a crack at a head wid his thorn. Thin he gives to the tail av his coat a shpread, Invitin’ some felly upon it to thread, Whan he plays a tattoo on the roof av his head On Saint Pathrick’s day in the morn, He'd scorn ‘The lumps that his head adorn, Tree hunderd an’ sixty-four days, me lad, He drinks cowld wather, or he lies, bedad, Wid his Sunday beer whan it's to be had, He's the pink av sobrietee. An’ thin, ochone! how the whishky flows Ina stiddy strame twixt his chin and nose Till it swells his breast an’ turns out his toes, Thin yese betther lave him be, Machree. He's crackin’ for foight, ye see. T'ree hunderd an’ sixty-four days he'll wait In congrissional hall or judge's sate, An’ the blood in his heart will jist shtagnate In a mon that is Oirish bred ; An’ thin wan day whan ye'd laist shuppose, Regairdless av office or rank or clothes, He will feel a tingling from head to toes ‘An’ he'll have to break a head, ‘Tis said, An’ get drunk an’ be put to bed. T'ree hundred an’ sixty-four days is pasht, Saint Pathrick’s day is come at lasht ‘An’ me heart is batin’ high an’ fasht, Fall in for the big parade Hoist up the flag, bring on the band, Play ** The Boggy Koads of Oireland."" Put me blackthorn shtick widin me hand An’ give me the room to shpread. Indade I'm achin’ to break a head. ALT, WORDEN VERY CHEAP GIRL. Mr, West End —* What do you think of my copy of * Cinderella,’ uncle ?” Uncle Forecorners—" You mean that picter of a lady washin’ dishes? Don’t think it’s any ‘count at all. Why didn’t the artist hev’ her doin’ crewel-work like yer aunt Pamela when Suage she had her'n took?” BALL, HOW THE CONTRACT WAS BROKEN. Mrs, Hayseep — “Now, Eben, you jes’ keep still fer fifteen minutes an’ we'll see ef them mud baths be as good fer ther rheumatics as they say." Mr. Hayseep—"‘All right; I'll be as still as er ghost.” THE MODERN WAR CORRESPONDENT ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE, WOULDN'T DO. Brannagan (sadly)—“ No, sor; no Oirish- kin iver be pope — only dagoes, more’s the man pit: Sparks —*" It wouldn't do to have an Irish pope, Denni Brannagan —" Phwoy not?” Sparks —" It would only increase the num- | ber of Irish bulls.” But he wasn’t, comicbooks.com