Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

I have only a bit of a quarrel with Pat—
Not of course that he's dirty
And though thirteen looks thirty
And is tattered and towzled with hair like a mat,
Or is vicious and vagrant
And decidedly fragrant
Of tobacco and beer and unspeakable things
(Not in vessels and vials)
Of his native Seven Dials
And the odour which to this queer neighbourhood clings;
But my quarrel is this, and a suitable text,
That you never can guess what his trick will be next.

He is saucy, no doubt, but I love merry Pat,
Like those nondescript creatures
With impossible features—
Head or tail either end, perhaps dog, perhaps cat;
If he takes that direction,
He will show an affection
That your Board School phenomenon never could feel—
At a wave of your finger,
When a hero might linger,
He would fight to the death and prove stiffer than steel;
Though I own with regret for a copper or cup,
He would greatly prefer just to double you up.

A true pickle indeed is the frolicsome Pat,
For he slips out of messes
And law's iron caresses
To go souse in again—he thinks nothing of that;
Ah, but he knew no other
Than the street as a mother,
And was tumbled about by bad teachers and tost
From the arch to the cellar,
Without your good umbrella
Or warm coat betwixt him and the rain and the frost;
And no School Board on him had five minutes to spare,
With pianos and prate and grandmotherly care.

461

There are loafers and loafers, but mischievous Pat
Has the laziest paces
And the oddest grimaces,
Always lounging, half ignorant what he is at;
He reads posters and dockets,
With his hands in his pockets
When at least they are not in some credulous friend's;
For he likes Eden's apple
And prefers his Whitechapel
To Whitehall and red tape and the rubbish it sends;
But he'd give you a “tanner” if down on your luck,
Nor deny you his bottle or orange to suck.

Under gaslight more often than sunlight roams Pat,
With a keen eye for profit
And what he may score off it
In a masterly way at your cost with his bat;
For he has the right ticket
And will keep up his wicket
When the bigger knaves fall at the bowling of fate;
His defence is so ready
And his batting so steady,
That his victim mistakes him at times for a mate;
And he plays honest rogue with such infinite zest,
You forgive him the wrong and remember the jest.

Oh, his Irish blue eyes are a fortune for Pat,
And ensure him an innings
In the face of all sinnings,
And the fact that he never will wear his own hat;
While the smile just in season
Quite forbids any reason
For suspecting his hand of the blow or the loss,
And his innocent asking
Makes the best kind of masking
When he sighs of his errors and says he is dross;
For you cannot find fault with his manners or smile,
And his principles seem far above petty guile.

If he seems least alert I am careful with Pat,
For his doubtful deportment
And paraded assortment

462

Of preposterous airs, prove he smells out a rat;
Then I know he is waiting,
And I see he is baiting
A sly trap for the simple who want to be caught;
Be it only a carriage
Or a meeting or marriage,
Yet he is not the boy to give labour for naught;
He will hook something good, though he follows it far,
If it's merely the end of a half-smoked cigar.

If he tumbles, he falls on his feet, lucky Pat,
And when judgment is spoken
Still he comes off unbroken,
For the net holding mackerel lets outs the sprat;
And he takes the brief sentence
With the sweetest repentance
And deplores with a sob the indelible stain;
But though quitting seclusion
With most tearful effusion,
He returns to his haunts and bad habits again;
For the passion, alas, is bred deep in the bone,
And the wicked police will not let him alone.