AN IRISH TOAST.

Here's to dear Ould Ireland,
Here's to the Irish lass,
Here's to Dennis and Mike and Pat,
Here's to the sparkling glass.
Here's to the Irish copper,
He may be green all right,
But you bet he's Mickie on the spot
Whenever it comes to a fight.
Here's to Robert Emmet, too,
And here's to our dear Tom Moore.
Here's to the Irish shamrock,
Here's to the land we adore.

MY LIFE AND DEATH.

(By A. Turkey Gobbler.)

I'm just a turkey gobbler,
But I've got a word to say
And I'd like to say it quickly
Before I pass away,
For I will get it in the neck
Upon Thanksgiving Day.

I cannot keep from thinking
Of poor Marie Antoinette,
She lost her head completely,
But this is what I'll get--
They'll knock the stuffin' out o' me
Without the least regret.

I've just a few days left now
Before I meet my fate,
For every turkey gets the axe,
The little and the great.
There never was a turkey born
Who didn't fill a plate.

Only three days left now,
Goodness, how time flies!
It brings a sadness to my heart
And teardrops to my eyes.
Does every turkey feel that way
Three days before he dies?

This is a very cruel world
(I'm talking sober facts),
For I was only raised to be
The victim of an axe--
The butt of all your silly jokes,
And all your funny cracks.

And when you sit down Thursday
How happy you will be,
Every person gathered there
Will eat enough for three.
I'll be the guest of honor
'Cause that dinner is on ME.

L'ENVOI.

I'm the ghost of that poor gobbler
Who used to be so great,
They took my poor, neglected bones
And piled them on a plate.
Reader, shed a kindly tear
For my unhappy fate.

This is the common lot of all
Upon the world's great chart;
We've got to leave a pile of bones--
The stupid and the smart.
Even when Napoleon died
He left a Bonaparte.

We are merely puppets
Moving on a string,
And when we think that we are IT,
The axe will fall--"Gezing!"
O, Grave, where is thy victory?
O, Death, where is thy sting?

IF I WERE CITY EDITOR.

(After Ben King, Dedicated to E. Jesse Conway.)

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