Mirth and Metre :: :: University of Virginia Library

I'm a Paddy, you'll hear by the sight of my brogue,
My name's Mr. Rod'rick O'Mac-Whack-Finugino,
I was born wid no shirt, in swate Balinahogue,
And christen'd by Father O`Dominie Dugino;
The reverend father was wonderful frisky,
He lov'd holy water—but mix'd it wid whisky,
And in pastoral zeal gave me this ghostly warning,

(Mr. Finugino, says he, take my word for it, and the word of a christian,)

“If you're drunk over night, you'll be dry the next morning.”

And, arrah, faith, that was my case now—but if I had known, I should have been so dry this morning, to be sure I wouldn't have drunk more last night—but that's all

Botherum! ditherum! noodledum! doodledum!
Patrick's day in the morning.

He told me a deal about pedigree, fait,
Said his blood was as thick as the best lord's in Christerdom,
(Thinks I, that accounts for your thick-headed pate)
So he told all his ancestors names, while I listen'd 'em;
He knew them all pat, save his father, poor elf,
Case his mother of him wa'n't quite certain herself,
And this on the subject was all I'could gather,

(My dear Roderick, would he say, I know, and you know, and all the world knows,) He must be a wise child who knows his own father;

Och! what a pedigree it was! it reached all the way from Adam and Eve in Paradise, to the Adam and Eve in Tottenham-court-road; and he drank so often, to refresh

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his memory, that the devil a sup he left in the noggin for us. “Father,” says I, “what are you doing?” —“O, Mr. Finugeno,” says he, “you are bent upon getting drunk; and ant I, like a charitable Christian, and the keeper of your conscience, preventing you, by taking the sin upon myself? but you've no more gratitude than

Bother, &c.

The father for bull making had a strange whim,
And got great wid Miss Judy, the brat of O'Rollocher,
But Judy she made a complete bull of him,
Wid blinking ey'd, wooden-legg'd, Darby O'Gallocher;
But Darby thus prov'd he'd not not make him a beast,
Had Teddy been my child, said he, to the priest,
(For no soul than Darby cou'd joke more demurely),

“Father O`Dominic,” says he, “is'n't it naturable enough for a child to take after his own father?”—“To be sure,” says the priest. “Then,” replied Darby, “if the child had been mine,

He must have been born with a wooden leg, surely.”

“Mister Finugino,” says he, “you can't think how this proof of Judy's vartue eased my heart; Och, blood and ouns! the thought of it often made my head ach.” —“I don't doubt it,” says I. “For,” says he, “I was always the tenderest father; and, apropos, to finish the noggin, I'll give you a toast—“May the hard-hearted father never know what it is to have a child.”

Bother, &c.