J. P. (Ecstatically) “Ah—Teeperary ees in Ireland! Eet is the Hymne National of les Irlandais sans doute; the—what do you say—the National Anthem of that country!”
T. A.—(Rather taken aback) “Well, not exactly a hymn, my son. You’re a long way off it yet.”
J. P.—“‘A long, long way’ off eet, hein? But why so very far to this place you sing of? And why do you celebrate it so loudly on your marching?”
T. A.—(Puzzled) “Blowed if I know. It’s a long way because—you see, you’d have to cross the Channel; then first on the left and straight on till you board the Irish packet; then—ask a policeman. See?”
J. P.—(Sadly) “Ah, oui, oui. Je ne comprends pas—mille regrets.”
T. A.—“You no comprenny, eh? Same here—left my geography home on the piano, else I’d put it clearer.” (An idea comes to him.) “You see, it’s like this: we take Tipperary as kind of representative—oh, very hot. Now I’m oratin’. Twig?”
J. P.—“Pardon?”
T. A.—(Very earnestly, explaining to himself as well as his friend) “Means lots of things, Tipperary—home, the girl, a square feed, plenty of ’baccy, and the old pals, you know; all signified by the word ‘Tipperary.’ Understand? We pack it up tight for convenience in transport, and when we sing it, it all comes out—the jolly things we’ve left behind. Got it?”
J. P.—(Smiling happily) “Ah, bien entendu—you ‘pack it’—ze Irish packet of which you have spoke, is it not?”
T. A.—(Groaning softly) “Oh, Lord! Cheese it, Frenchie—you make me perspire. What I mean is, when we sing ‘Tipperary’ it reminds us of all these things. And we like it. Makes us feel nice all over.”