THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY

THERE was a lady liv'd at Leith,

A lady very stylish, man;
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman -
A nasty, ugly Irishman,

A wild, tremendous Irishman,

A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful,

For with small-pox 't was scarr'd across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue the fighting, rioting Irish

man.

One of his eyes was bottle-green,

And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear. Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irish

man.

THE SOLDIER-BOY

I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashion'd well;
Who first the glittering falchion sway'd,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not; but I hope to know

That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood

In which its tempering work was done : As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun.

For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,

I give my soldier-boy a blade.

The eye which mark'd its peerless edge, The hand that weigh'd its balanced poise,

Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and

noise

And still the gleaming sword remains ; So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember by these heart-felt strains, I gave my soldier-boy a blade.