"'Bring on yer fightin' sperrits,' I cried, 'from Julis Sazar to Tim Macould, an' I'll bate them all, for the glory of Ireland!'

"The big chap as had me money kem behind me, and put his elbow in me eye; but, me jewel, I tossed him over as ef he'd bin a feather, an' the money rolled out his pocket. Wid a cry of 'Faugh-a-ballah!' I grabbed six dollars, runned out av the doore, an' I'll niver put fut in the house again. An' that's how I kem be the black eye."

OPIE READ
BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

Dis language Anglaise dat dey spe'k,
On State of Illinois,
Is hard for Frenchmen heem to learn,
It give me moch annoy.
Las' w'ek ma frien', McGoverane
He com' to me an' say:
"You mak' a toas' on Opie Read
W'en dey geeve gran' banqay."

"I mak' a toas'? Not on your life!
Dat man's wan frien' of me.
W'at for I warm heem op lak' toas'?
De reason I can't see."
An' den John laugh out on hees eye
W'en he is to me say:
"To mak' a toas' is not a roas',
It's jus' de odder way."

Dat's how I learn dat toas' an' roas'
Is call by different name,
Dough bot' are warm in dere own way,
Dere far from mean de same.
An' so, ma frien', in lof' I clasp
Your gr'ad, beeg, brawny han',
An' share vit you in fellowship,
An' pay you on deman'.

You're built upon a ver' large plan,
Overe seex feet you rise:
You need it all to shelter in
Your heart dat's double size.
You are too broad for narrow t'ings,
You gr'ad for any creed;
I'll eat de roas', but drink de toas',
To ma frien', Opie Read.

THE VILLAGE CHOIR
After the Charge of the Light Brigade
ANONYMOUS

Half a bar, half a bar,
Half a bar onward!
Into an awful ditch
Choir and precentor hitch,
Into a mess of pitch,
They led the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, that precentor's look,
When the sopranos took
Their own time and hook
From the Old Hundred!

Screeched all the trebles here,
Boggled the tenors there,
Raising the parson's hair,
While his mind wandered;
Theirs not to reason why
This psalm was pitched too high:
Theirs but to gasp and cry
Out the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell,
Not wise they sang nor well,
Drowning the sexton's bell,
While all the church wondered.