AL-MANIAC DAY.—A RUSH FOR THE MURPHIES.

Mysterious Murphy, whose transcendent skill

Makes hail, rain, vapour,

Come forth obsequious to your will,—

At least on paper,—

Tell us what famous college

Bestow'd your wondrous knowledge!

Perchance your learned sconce found it at once;

Perhaps by degree of T.C.D.

Some say the Prince of Evil has been too civil,

And that, in change for all your knowledge boasted

You're doomed—like other murphies—to be roasted.

Some think, like me for one,

You've kissed the Blarney Stone;

But though your blunders make a pretty rout,

Sure, if you're right, by second sight,

You well may be, at first, a little out.

But cock your weather eye athwart the sky,

Of wind and storm disclose your store,

For one year more,

And tell us true.—

Led by your lies the ships lie to,

Or snugly arbour'd, with bower anchor ride,

And lose the tide—

Their funnies near, the watermen look sad,

Short cut or shag alone their sorrow lulls,

In sunshine read your page of weather bad,

And shake their heads, for no one wants their sculls.

But, sad to think, the washerwoman's pain,

Praying for rain,

And vainly hoping, as for showers she sniffs,

To fill her butts with your delusive ifs.

Ah, me! I sought the throngs in Beulah's bowers,

Seduced from home by your fair fiction,

But found none out, amid the drizzling showers,

Save my sad self and your prediction.

Now if again the weather's care you take on,

Don't try your flam on,

But if you wish to save your bacon,

Give us less gammon.