Where for twelve forgotten months its weight had hung upon the nail;
And the “splather” of a necktie only once a year paraded,
And the scarf that came from Ireland, “ere a one of you were born,”
And the treasured bunch of shamrock—old and withered now, and faded,
Blessed by every tear that stained it since the cruel parting morn.
Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Men of solid reputation,
Ringing bells and giving orders, kept the programme moving by;
And they made you sickly conscious of your humble situation
When they glared upon your meanness with a cold official eye.
Every “maneen” with a broken voice and backers there beside him,