“Say, do you mean it, honest Injun, now?”
Said Vivian O’Riley to his sire.
“And faith I do,” the earnest sire replied:
“Marry this girl if so ye choose, me son,
But—if ye do—the divil a ha’penny
Of all me fortune will yees ever see,
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-hids shine.”
Two hours have passed, and so have eight or ten
Slow-rolling tramway cars, until there comes
The one which Vivian wants, and soon it lands