 | Heliconundrums |  |
3
ST. PATRICK'S FEAST
[A POWER OF SOUND]
Then they all got blind drunk, which completed their bliss:
And we keep up the custom from that day to this.
Lover's History of Ireland.
And we keep up the custom from that day to this.
Lover's History of Ireland.
'Twas at the yearly Feast for Oireland won
By Oireland's Sainted Son:
The Feast we keep in state,
(May be kept up too late),
And meet, nor mate alone,
But whiskey-fixins, I'll be bound,—
Lashins o' that unstinted going round,
So should His mimory be crown'd,
Wid juicy lemons, sugar lumps beside,
An some hot wather too supplied,
But more of the potheen our pride.
Happy, happy thim who share!
Come o'er the wave!
Come o'er the wave!
Come o'er the wave and we'll drink fair!
4
Chorus
— The whiskey wave, and we'll drink fair.
Tim O' Thews, placed on high,
Amid the tuneful quire,
Wid flying fingers touch'd his lyre
(It was a bagpipes, by the bye,—
The more 'tis to admire).
His song began from when
The ugly varmint made their den
(A power of varmint among men)
In Oireland. Dragons there abode
And many a sarpient, many a toad,
Till Patrick to the work address'd
His saintly soul. He smote his breast,
And swore the Oirish waists, where curl'd
The sarpients, should be sarpient-free, the first floor of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty swear:
St. Pathrick to the fore! they see him there;
St. Pathrick! shure he 's here, so all outside declare.
Wid ravish'd ears
Each Paddy hears,
Flings off his hod,
And, wid a nod,
Repates the moighty shout that seems to shake the spheres.
Amid the tuneful quire,
Wid flying fingers touch'd his lyre
(It was a bagpipes, by the bye,—
The more 'tis to admire).
His song began from when
The ugly varmint made their den
(A power of varmint among men)
In Oireland. Dragons there abode
And many a sarpient, many a toad,
Till Patrick to the work address'd
His saintly soul. He smote his breast,
And swore the Oirish waists, where curl'd
The sarpients, should be sarpient-free, the first floor of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty swear:
St. Pathrick to the fore! they see him there;
St. Pathrick! shure he 's here, so all outside declare.
Wid ravish'd ears
Each Paddy hears,
Flings off his hod,
And, wid a nod,
Repates the moighty shout that seems to shake the spheres.
Chorus
— Repate, and shake the spheres!
The praise of Pathrick then the swate musician sang,
Of Pathrick wid the oily wily tongue:
The jolly Saint in triumph comes:
Blow the trumpets! thump the drums!
Flush'd, and wid a purple grace,
He shows his honest face:
Now give the pipes your wind! he comes! he comes!
Pathrick, first of saints among,
Whiskey-drinkin did invint:
Pathrick's lavings are a treasure,
Wid matarials, widout measure:
Widout measure
Swater pleasure,
Swatest pleasure widout stint.
Of Pathrick wid the oily wily tongue:
5
Blow the trumpets! thump the drums!
Flush'd, and wid a purple grace,
He shows his honest face:
Now give the pipes your wind! he comes! he comes!
Pathrick, first of saints among,
Whiskey-drinkin did invint:
Pathrick's lavings are a treasure,
Wid matarials, widout measure:
Widout measure
Swater pleasure,
Swatest pleasure widout stint.
Chorus
— Swatest pleasure widout stint!
Soothed with his drink, he sang amain:
Fought the Saint's battles o'er again
And thrice he druv the varmints out and nine times slew the slain.
Then saw a master madness rise
In reddening cheeks and rolling eyes;
So, while another mixin he supplied,
He changed his hand; his voice it died,
Sinking to a mournful muse,
The Spirit did infuse.
He sang a Dragon purty good
Disturb'd by what he ate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen into a wakely state,
Rejectin of his food.
Refusing at his utmost need
The wholesome drink, and off his feed,
On the bare earth exposed he lies:
The divil a headache shuts his eyes.
With downcast glance at empty glass they sate,
Revolving in each alter'd soul
The various turns of chance below;
And one did sigh and sighing stole
More whiskey for his woe.
Fought the Saint's battles o'er again
And thrice he druv the varmints out and nine times slew the slain.
Then saw a master madness rise
In reddening cheeks and rolling eyes;
So, while another mixin he supplied,
He changed his hand; his voice it died,
Sinking to a mournful muse,
The Spirit did infuse.
He sang a Dragon purty good
Disturb'd by what he ate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen into a wakely state,
Rejectin of his food.
Refusing at his utmost need
6
On the bare earth exposed he lies:
The divil a headache shuts his eyes.
With downcast glance at empty glass they sate,
Revolving in each alter'd soul
The various turns of chance below;
And one did sigh and sighing stole
More whiskey for his woe.
Chorus
— More whiskey for his woe!
Then Master Tim he smiled as he
Another noggin mix'd, to see
He'd but a kindred sound to move,
To lade from pity unto love.
Softly swate, in ladian measures,
Sang he them to dhreamy pleasures.
Life, he sung, 's a wathry bubble;
Whiskey, is it worth the throuble?
Ending almost when beginning.
But his joy who loves a maid is
Double, striving for and winning:
Think, O think then of the Ladies!
Lovely They is sits beside ye:
Take the first the Gods provide ye!
Then many smash 'their glasses wid applause;
But others more particular did pause;
And one, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the Fair
Who caused his care,
And sigh'd and look'd, and sidelong look'd, sigh'd, look'd, and sigh'd again,
Until wid love and whiskey much opprest,
His beautiful head droop'd down on his own manly breast.
Another noggin mix'd, to see
He'd but a kindred sound to move,
To lade from pity unto love.
Softly swate, in ladian measures,
Sang he them to dhreamy pleasures.
Life, he sung, 's a wathry bubble;
Whiskey, is it worth the throuble?
Ending almost when beginning.
But his joy who loves a maid is
Double, striving for and winning:
Think, O think then of the Ladies!
Lovely They is sits beside ye:
Take the first the Gods provide ye!
Then many smash 'their glasses wid applause;
But others more particular did pause;
And one, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the Fair
Who caused his care,
7
Until wid love and whiskey much opprest,
His beautiful head droop'd down on his own manly breast.
Chorus
— His beautiful head droop'd down on his own manly breast.
Now blow the bagpipes wonst again!
A noisier yet, and yet a noisier strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him wid a rattlin peal o' thunder!
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has pick'd up his head;
He awakes from the dead
Drunk and dazed looks around.
Thread on his coat! Tim O' Thews cries:
That will give him a rise.
See the bhoys all uprare
Their red heads — in the hair!
See the jewels that flash from their eyes!
By me sowl, it 's a band,
Wid shillalagh in hand,
To make ghosts o' the kilt and the slain.
Faith, he 's hit him again!
Inglorious on the plain,
Give the bhoys their due,
Will be very few.
Behold how they toss their shellalaghs on high!
How they jump on each other when down!
And the Ladies look on and don't swoun,
But admire and applaud wid a 'preshative joy,
Till Tim went for the gas-jets in zeal to destroy.
Then they led him away.
Wid no light for his prey,
And no end of hurrahs for a rale Oirish bhoy!
A noisier yet, and yet a noisier strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him wid a rattlin peal o' thunder!
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has pick'd up his head;
He awakes from the dead
Drunk and dazed looks around.
Thread on his coat! Tim O' Thews cries:
That will give him a rise.
See the bhoys all uprare
Their red heads — in the hair!
See the jewels that flash from their eyes!
By me sowl, it 's a band,
Wid shillalagh in hand,
To make ghosts o' the kilt and the slain.
Faith, he 's hit him again!
Inglorious on the plain,
Give the bhoys their due,
Will be very few.
Behold how they toss their shellalaghs on high!
How they jump on each other when down!
And the Ladies look on and don't swoun,
8
Till Tim went for the gas-jets in zeal to destroy.
Then they led him away.
Wid no light for his prey,
And no end of hurrahs for a rale Oirish bhoy!
Chorus
— No end of hurrahs for a rale Oirish bhoy!
Thus long ago,
Long as his bellows had the wind to blow,
Till whiskey made him mute,
Tim O' Thews could his bagpipes shute
To saintly ire
Or praises ov the malt's swate juice or rollicking desire.
At last good Father Mathew came
And well-nigh squelch'd St. Pathrick's game.
The Temprate Saint broke all the worms asthore,
Doubled the drinker's narrow bounds,
Caught him upon teetotal grounds,
And stopp'd his native drink with a pledge unknown before.
Yet, ould St. Pathrick! keep thy bays,
Or each take half a crown!
You druv the sarpients to the says;
Both put the whiskey down.
Long as his bellows had the wind to blow,
Till whiskey made him mute,
Tim O' Thews could his bagpipes shute
To saintly ire
Or praises ov the malt's swate juice or rollicking desire.
At last good Father Mathew came
And well-nigh squelch'd St. Pathrick's game.
The Temprate Saint broke all the worms asthore,
Doubled the drinker's narrow bounds,
Caught him upon teetotal grounds,
And stopp'd his native drink with a pledge unknown before.
Yet, ould St. Pathrick! keep thy bays,
Or each take half a crown!
You druv the sarpients to the says;
Both put the whiskey down.
Grand Chorus
— Put the whiskey down!
| Heliconundrums | |