Part 146 (1/2)
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.