Helter-skelter down to Casey’s, banging, pounding all the way,
And the greetings flung in Irish, and the flood of Celtic banter,
And the hectic flush of racial pride upon St. Patrick’s Day.
Everywhere was emerald flashing from the buggies, traps, and jinkers,
There was green in every garment, and a splash in every hat,
In the bows upon the cart-whips, in the ribbons on the winkers,
In the wealth of woven carpet neath the gums on Casey’s Flat.
There the new dress faced the critics, and the little beaded bonnet
And the feather flowing freely like a sapling in a gale;
And “himself” inside his long black coat that bore a bulge upon it