MR. FOLEY'S CHRISTMAS
There's nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
John Boyle O'Reilly
I
Since pick av them I'm sore denied
'Twixt play or work, I say,
Though it be Christmas, I decide
I'll work whilst others play:
I'll whustle, too, wid Christmas pride
To airn me extry pay.—
It's like the job's more glorified
That's done a-holiday!
Dan, dip a coal in dad's pipe-bowl;
Kate, pass me dinner-can:
Och! Mary woman, save yer sowl,
Ye've kissed a workin'-man—
Ye have, this Christmas mornin',
Ye've kissed a workin'-man!
II
Whisht, Kate an' Dan!—ten thousan' grates
There's yon where ne'er a charm
Av childer-faces sanctuates
The city-homes from harm:
It's cold out there the weather waits
An' bitter whirls the storm,
But, faith! these arms av little Kate's
'Ll kape her fayther warm!
Ay, Danny, tight me belt a mite,—
Kate, aisy wid the can!—
Sure, I'd be comin' home to-night
A hungry workin'-man—
D'ye moind, this Christmas avenin'—
A howlin'-hungry man!
III
It's sorry for the boss I be,
Wid new conthracts to sign
An' hire a sub to oversee
Whilst he lave off an' dine:
It's sorry for the Company
That owns the Aarie Line—
What vasht raasponshibility
They have, compared wid mine!
There, Katy! git me t'other mitt,
An' fetch me yon from Dan—
(Wid aich one's “Christmas” hid in it!)
Lave go me dinner-can!—
Ye'll have me docked this mornin'—
This blessed Christmas mornin',—
A dishgraced workin'-man!
