The Book of Humorous Verse

by Unknown

A fig for St. Denis of France— He's a trumpery fellow to brag on; A fig for St. George and his lance, Which spitted a heathenish dragon; And the saints of the Welshman or Scot Are a couple of pitiful pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, Compared with that patron of swipers— St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear! He came to the Emerald Isle On a lump of a paving-stone mounted; The steamboat he beat by a mile, Which mighty good sailing was counted. Says he, "The salt water, I think, Has made me most bloodily thirsty; So bring me a flagon of drink To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye! Of drink that is fit for a saint!" He preached, then, with wonderful force, The ignorant natives a-teaching; With a pint he washed down his discourse, "For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching." The people, with wonderment struck At a pastor so pious and civil, Exclaimed—"We're for you, my old buck! And we pitch our blind gods to the devil, Who dwells in hot water below!" This ended, our worshipful spoon Went to visit an elegant fellow, Whose practice, each cool afternoon, Was to get most delightfully mellow. That day with a black-jack of beer, It chanced he was treating a party; Says the saint—"This good day, do you hear, I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty! So give me a pull at the pot!" The pewter he lifted in sport (Believe me, I tell you no fable); A gallon he drank from the quart, And then placed it full on the table. "A miracle!" every one said— And they all took a haul at the stingo; They were capital hands at the trade, And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo, The pot still frothed over the brim. Next day, quoth his host, "'Tis a fast, And I've nought in my larder but mutton; And on Fridays who'd made such repast, Except an unchristian-like glutton?" Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg— What you tell me is nothing but gammon; Take my compliments down to the leg, And bid it come hither a salmon!" And the leg most politely complied. You've heard, I suppose, long ago, How the snakes, in a manner most antic, He marched to the county Mayo, And trundled them into th' Atlantic. Hence, not to use water for drink, The people of Ireland determine— With mighty good reason, I think, Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin And vipers, and other such stuff! Oh, he was an elegant blade As you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper; And though under the sod he is laid, Yet here goes his health in a bumper! I wish he was here, that my glass He might by art magic replenish; But since he is not—why, alas! My ditty must come to a finish,— Because all the liquor is out! William Maginn.

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THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER

"Come here, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who King David was— Now tell me if you can, Sir." "King David was a mighty man, And he was King of Spain, Sir; His eldest daughter 'Jessie' was The 'Flower of Dunblane,' Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Sir Isaac Newton—who was he? Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Sir Isaac Newton was the boy That climbed the apple-tree, Sir; He then fell down and broke his crown, And lost his gravity, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who ould Marmion was— Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Ould Marmion was a soldier bold, But he went all to pot, Sir; He was hanged upon the gallows tree, For killing Sir Walter Scott, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who Sir Rob Roy was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Sir Rob Roy was a tailor to The King of the Cannibal Islands; He spoiled a pair of breeches, and Was banished to the Highlands." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Then, Bonaparte—say, who was he? Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Ould Bonaparte was King of France Before the Revolution; But he was kilt at Waterloo, Which ruined his constitution." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who King Jonah was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "King Jonah was the strangest man That ever wore a crown, Sir; For though the whale did swallow him, It couldn't keep him down, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who that Moses was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Shure Moses was the Christian name Of good King Pharaoh's daughter; She was a milkmaid, and she took A profit from the water." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me now where Dublin is; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Och, Dublin is a town in Cork, And built on the equator; It's close to Mount Vesuvius, And watered by the 'craythur.'" "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me now where London is; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Och, London is a town in Spain; 'Twas lost in the earthquake, Sir; The cockneys murther English there, Whenever they do spake, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, Ye're now a jintlemàn, Sir; For in history and geography I've taught you all I can, Sir. And if any one should ask you now, Where you got all your knowledge, Jist tell them 'twas from Paddy Blake, Of Bally Blarney College." James A. Sidey.

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REFLECTIONS ON CLEOPATHERA'S NEEDLE

So that's Cleopathera's Needle, bedad, An' a quare lookin' needle it is, I'll be bound; What a powerful muscle the queen must have had That could grasp such a weapon an' wind it around! Imagine her sittin' there stitchin' like mad Wid a needle like that in her hand! I declare It's as big as the Round Tower of Slane, an', bedad, It would pass for a round tower, only it's square! The taste of her, ordherin' a needle of granite! Begorra, the sight of it sthrikes me quite dumb! An' look at the quare sort of figures upon it; I wondher can these be the thracks of her thumb! I once was astonished to hear of the faste Cleopathera made upon pearls; but now I declare, I would not be surprised in the laste If ye told me the woman had swallowed a cow! It's aisy to see why bould Cæsar should quail In her presence, an' meekly submit to her rule; Wid a weapon like that in her fist I'll go bail She could frighten the sowl out of big Finn MacCool! But, Lord, what poor pigmies the women are now, Compared with the monsthers they must have been then! Whin the darlin's in those days would kick up a row, Holy smoke, but it must have been hot for the men! Just think how a chap that goes courtin' would start If his girl was to prod him wid that in the shins! I have often seen needles, but bouldly assart That the needle in front of me there takes the pins! O, sweet Cleopathera! I'm sorry you're dead; An' whin lavin' this wondherful needle behind Had ye thought of bequathin' a spool of your thread An' yer thimble an' scissors, it would have been kind. But pace to your ashes, ye plague of great men, Yer strength is departed, yer glory is past; Ye'll never wield sceptre or needle again, An' a poor little asp did yer bizzness at last! Cormac O'Leary.

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THE ORIGIN OF IRELAND

With due condescension, I'd call your attention To what I shall mention of Erin so green, And without hesitation I will show how that nation Became of creation the gem and the queen. 'Twas early one morning, without any warning, That Vanus was born in the beautiful say, And by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking, Her pinions were soaking and wouldn't give play. Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, In order to woo her—the wicked old Jew— And almost had caught her atop of the water— Great Jupiter's daughter!—which never would do. But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Vanus, And Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild, And he spoke out in thunder, he'd rend him asunder— And sure 'twas no wonder—for tazing his child. A star that was flying hard by him espying, He caught with small trying, and down let it snap; It fell quick as winking, on Neptune a-sinking, And gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap. That star it was dry land, both low land and high land, And formed a sweet island, the land of my birth; Thus plain is the story, that sent down from glory, Old Erin asthore as the gem of the earth! Upon Erin nately jumped Vanus so stately, But fainted, kase lately so hard she was pressed— Which much did bewilder, but ere it had killed her Her father distilled her a drop of the best. That sup was victorious, it made her feel glorious— A little uproarious, I fear it might prove— So how can you blame us that Ireland's so famous For drinking and beauty, for fighting and love? Unknown.