It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be,
And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'
"Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl;
And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl,
When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash,
Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!
"Take warning now, all Irishmen, of what may be your fate,
If you come home on Christmas-night an hour or so too late;
For sleeping on the garret stairs, and rolling down, may be
To you, as unto Mike, a dream of good Saint Tammany!"