Life — March 17, 1898 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

HIS day, the best Of all the rest, St. Pathrick’s in the marnin’ By which I mane March sivintane, The day that he was bore in By all the saints, 1 almost faints! ‘The first thing that I came on, There, restin’ sure Furninst the door, A package with me name on! Me glad surprise To look what was into it, What there was hid And dhrew it forth to view it. Faith, when I seen This bit of green Coom sth I se; 1, + Me pen is dhry,” And sets me Muse a throublio’ * Coom thin, swate Muse, Me pin infuse, And swell me thayme ¢onorous (Ud rather spake, Me verse is wake: It stumbles at the corners.) ht, Good Lord! from Dublin, A SLIPPERY DAY ON THE ASPHALT. The Acknowledgment of Casey. On receiving a bow of green ribbon on St. Patrick's Day in the Morning, In virtue pure St. Pathrick sure Outshone all men of my day: He niver ate No scrap of mate In Lint, nor yet on Friday. This lovely isle, With beaven’s smile Forever bint acrost her, Through her he wint, And, riverint, Still said bis Puter Noster, Through Kiunegad He wint, bedad, Bint on his saintly labours; Through Killaloe, And Galway too, And Limerick, bejabers! He prached aroun’, Fair Dublin town, And beautiful Killarney; And just furninst Cork Castle wanst He kissed the Stone of Blarney. This holy man, This gracious one, Was ilegint and stately; With winsome arts The payple’s hearts He'd win to him complately. He was that poor, From door to door, Wid pardonin’ and confessin’, He rode no horse, He wore no purse, He took no alms but bles The snakes and toads Mong the roads Were good St, Pathrick’s tarmint: “Coom now,” he said, And by its head sped the sthrugglin’ varmint. Cried this swate praste, “ Whose land is this ye feed in? Wor ye not cursed, In Book the First, For what ye done in Eden ¢ These bastes of guile, Sure in this isle Must not the likes of thim go,” And with thim words He flung them furrards, Mud cast them all to limbo. Thim snakes to quell, As I've hearn tell, He thrashed and smote so deirely, Not wanst he caysed, This jaynial praste, Till they wor kilt intoirely.