But they’ll talk of Mary’s wedding for a score of years to come!
Yes, the breakfast down at Mother’s—there’s the long, long table spread,
And a houseful of the neighbours with the old priest at their head;
And the speeches—Lord, the speeches—hitting hurdles every stride,
Full of awkward, heartfelt blessings for the bridegroom and the bride;
And the lad himself “respondin’,” when the cheers had died away,
Shifting crumbs around the table in the worst speech of the day.
Don’t I see it all before me? and my heart and head resent
All the smiles that patronize them, though they may be kindly meant.
“Scent of gum-leaves!” ’Tis a byword in the city’s roar and push,