“Thim tidin’s is transportin’,
But may I ax your saintship if
There’s any kind of sportin’?”
St. Pathrick said, “A Lion’s there,
Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer”—
“Bedad,” says Mick, “the huntin’s rare,
St. Pathrick, I’m your man, sir!”
So, to conclude my song aright,
For fear I’d tire your patience,
You’ll see O’Ryan any night