 | Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 |  |
128
A WORD IN SEASON.
Och! Mrs. Belson, ma'am!
You're raly too provoking,
You bother one so—
Nobody can know
If it's arnest you're in or joking.
Sure you're not a believer
In that big deceiver,
That thundering owld thief, Plato,
Who'd have sworn on a crook
If it had suited his book,
That a pig was like a potato!
You're raly too provoking,
You bother one so—
Nobody can know
If it's arnest you're in or joking.
Sure you're not a believer
In that big deceiver,
That thundering owld thief, Plato,
Who'd have sworn on a crook
If it had suited his book,
That a pig was like a potato!
Och! Mrs. Belson, ma'am!
It's only an evening to be wid you;
And it's aisy enough
To see the stuff
That you're taking will never agree wid you.
Ye's getting thin,
And go dreaming in
A way no purliteness can gloss over,
And a sin and a shame
'Tis to do that same—
For a haythen ould philosopher!
It's only an evening to be wid you;
And it's aisy enough
To see the stuff
That you're taking will never agree wid you.
Ye's getting thin,
And go dreaming in
A way no purliteness can gloss over,
And a sin and a shame
'Tis to do that same—
For a haythen ould philosopher!
129
You've heard, Mrs. Belson, ma'am,
So sweet were his orations,
That the humming bees
Came and fell on their knees
To suck in his conversations.
The mealy-mouthed thief!
It's my belief,
And I'll back it with any money,
He murdered whole hives
With his “catch 'em alives,”
Which the poor devils took for honey.
So sweet were his orations,
That the humming bees
Came and fell on their knees
To suck in his conversations.
The mealy-mouthed thief!
It's my belief,
And I'll back it with any money,
He murdered whole hives
With his “catch 'em alives,”
Which the poor devils took for honey.
Sure, Mrs. Belson, ma'am,
You're not to be hummed as the bees were,
The innocent varmin,
To think of their swarmin'
Round flowers of speech such as these were.
Such blarney to swallow
Beats Banaghar hollow;
To your heart surely something must nigher lie,
Hearts are not made of stone!
Don't I know by my own?
So come out of that entirely!
You're not to be hummed as the bees were,
The innocent varmin,
To think of their swarmin'
Round flowers of speech such as these were.
Such blarney to swallow
Beats Banaghar hollow;
To your heart surely something must nigher lie,
Hearts are not made of stone!
Don't I know by my own?
So come out of that entirely!
Dear Mrs. Belson, ma'am,
It's a mighty deal too bad of you,
Wid your eyes like onyx
To talk of platonics,
When there's scores of boys would be glad of you.
If a purty young chap
Should fall into your lap,
For the sake of human nature,
Mind you don't say him “nay” to
But pitch over Plato,
And love like a dacent creature.
It's a mighty deal too bad of you,
Wid your eyes like onyx
To talk of platonics,
When there's scores of boys would be glad of you.
130
Should fall into your lap,
For the sake of human nature,
Mind you don't say him “nay” to
But pitch over Plato,
And love like a dacent creature.
| Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 | |