Ye’ve shtarted me heart-strings so loudly to ringin’,
One person can’t carry the chune!
But don’t be unaisy,
Me darlint, for fear
Our saicrit of love should be tould.
Mahoney is crazy,
An’ Dinnis can’t hear;
Muldoon is struck dum wid a could.
Their backs are all facin’ the window, me dear;
An’ they’ve shworn by the horn of the moon
That niver a note of me song will they hear
That refers to shweet Nora McCune.
A GOOD AFTER-DINNER SPEECH
It was his first banquet, and they were making speeches. Everybody was being called on for a speech, and he was in mortal terror, for he had never made a speech in his life. An old-timer at his side cruelly suggested that he “get under the table—or say a prayer.” His name was called and he got up with fear and trembling, and said:
“My friends, I never made a speech in all my life, and I’m just scared nearly to death. A friend here beside me has suggested two things for me to do—to get under the table, or to pray. Well, I couldn’t get under the table without observation, and now that I am on my feet, I can’t think of any other prayer to say except one that I used to hear my sister Mary say in the morning when mother called us—‘O Lord, how I do hate to get up!’”
WHAT THE STATUTE DID NOT SAY
When Benjamin F. Butler lived in Lowell, Massachusetts, he had a little black-and-tan dog. One morning, as he was coming down the street, followed by the dog, a policeman stopped him and told him that, in accordance with an ordinance just passed, he must muzzle the dog.
“Very well,” said Butler.
Next morning he came along with the dog, and the policeman again told him of the muzzling ordinance and requested him to muzzle the dog.
“All right,” snorted Butler. “It is a fool ordinance, but I’ll muzzle him. Let me pass.”