Oi saw the Scoience workshops, too, and thought whin oi was made,
These little hands were niver mint to larn the blacksmith trade;
And for that illictricity, the thing what gives the shock,
They collared old Promaytheus and chained him to a rock
For a-playin' with the loightnin' and a-raychin to the skoies,
And the vultures gnawed his vittles, and the crows picked out his oyes.
But toimes has changed, and larnin' gives us power—don't you see?—
And whin oi'm done with Arts oi'll take that shplindid faculty;
For, sure, it's from their workshops that the solar system's run;
Besoides, they make the wither, too, and rigilate the sun.
Oi troied exams at Christmas, and oi didn't pass at all;
But oi can have another whack at thim nixt spring and fall.
In toime oi'll pass in iverything, and masther all they taiche;
Oi'll go through ivery faculty, and come out hid in aiche.
And whin oi've conquered all, loike Alexander oi will soigh
There is no more to conquer, and oi'll lay me down and doie.
They'll birry me with honors, and erict in my behalf
A monimint which shall disphlay the followin' epitaph:
"Here loies shwate Tim O'Gallagher,—sure he had wits to shpare,—
His father came from Donegal, his mother came from Clare.
He was a shplindid scholar, for he studied at McGill;
He drank the well of larnin' dhroy (and, faith! he got his fill).
Was niver mortal craythur larned to such a great degree,—
B.A.M.A.M.D.C.M.B.SC.LL.D."