d she's short and dark as a cowld winter's day,
If you don't repent before Easter, when Lent
Is over, I'll marry for spite."

SAINT PATRICK

"A fig for St. Denis of France!
He's a trumpery fellow to brag on.
A fig for St. George and his lance!
Who splitted a heathenish dragon.
The saints of the Welshman and Scot
Are a pair of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with the patron of swipers--
St. Patrick of Ireland, my boy!

"Och! he came to the Emerald Isle
On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steamboat he beat by a mile,
Which mighty good sailing was counted.
Said he, 'The salt-water, I think,
Makes me most bloodily thirsty,
So fetch me a flagon of drink
To wash down the mullygrubs, burst ye!
A drink that is fit for a saint.'

"The pewter he lifted _in sport_,
And, believe me, I tell you no fable,
A gallon he drank from the quart
And planted it down on the table.
'A miracle!' every one cried,
And they all took a pull at the stingo.
They were capital hands at the trade,
And they drank till they fell; yet, by jingo!
The pot still frothed over the brim.

"'Next day,' quoth his host, 'is a fast
And there is naught in my larder but mutton.
On Friday who would serve such repast,
Except an unchristianlike glutton?'
Says Pat, 'Cease your nonsense, I beg;
What you tell me is nothing but gammon.
Take my compliments down to the leg
And bid it walk hither, a salmon.'
The leg most politely complied.

"Oh! I suppose you have heard, long ago,
How the snakes, in a manner quite antic,
He marched from the County Mayo
And trundled them into the Atlantic.
So not to use water for drink,
The people of Ireland determined.
And for a mighty good reason, I think,
Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin
And vipers and other such stuff.

* * * * *

"The people, with wonderment struck
At a pastor so pious and civil,
Cried, 'We are for you, my old buck!
And we'll pitch our blind gods to the devil
Who dwells in hot water below.'

"Och! he was an iligant blade
As you'd meet from Fairhead to Killkrumper,
And, though under the sod he is laid,
Here goes his health in a bumper!
I wish he was here, that my glass
He might, by art-magic, repl