"But cur-rsed be th' day,
Whin Lord Taaffe grew faint-hearted
An sthud not n'r cha-arged,
But in panic depa-arted."

"D'ye mind it,--th' pome by Joyce? No, not Bill Joyce. Joyce, th' Irish
pote that wrote th' pome about th' wa-ars whin me people raysisted
Cromwell, while yours was carryin' turf on their backs to make fires
for th' crool invader, as Finerty says whin th' sub-scriptions r-runs
low. 'Tis th' same name, a good ol' Meath name in th' days gone by;
an' be th' same token I have in me head that this here Count Taaffe,
whether he's an austrich or a canary bur-rd now, is wan iv th' ol'
fam'ly. There's manny iv thim in Europe an' all th' wurruld beside.
There was Pat McMahon, th' Frinchman, that bate Looey Napoleon; an'
O'Donnell, the Spanish juke; an' O'Dhriscoll an' Lynch, who do be th'
whole thing down be South America, not to mention Patsy Bolivar. Ye
can't go annywhere fr'm Sweden to Boolgahria without findin' a Turk
settin' up beside th' king an' dalin' out th' deek with his own hand.
Jawn, our people makes poor Irishmen, but good Dutchmen; an', th' more
I see iv thim, th' more I says to mesilf that th' rale boney fide
Irishman is no more thin a foreigner born away from home. 'Tis so.

"Look at thim, Jawn," continued Mr. Dooley, becoming eloquent. "Whin
there's battles to be won, who do they sind for? McMahon or Shurdan or
Phil Kearney or Colonel Colby. Whin there's books to be wrote, who
writes thim but Char-les Lever or Oliver Goldsmith or Willum Carleton?
Whin there's speeches to be made, who makes thim but Edmund Burke or
Macchew P. Brady? There's not a land on th' face iv th' wurruld but
th' wan where an Irishman doesn't stand with his fellow-man, or above
thim. Whin th' King iv Siam wants a plisint evenin', who does he sind
f'r but a lively Kerry man that can sing a song or play a good hand at
spile-five? Whin th' Sultan iv Boolgahria takes tea, 'tis tin to wan
th' man across fr'm him is more to home in a caubeen thin in a turban.
There's Mac's an' O's in ivry capital iv Europe atin' off silver
plates whin their relations is staggerin' under th' creels iv turf in
th' Connaught bogs.

"Wirra, 'tis hard. Ye'd sa-ay off hand, 'Why don't they do as much for
their own counthry?' Light-spoken are thim that suggests th' like iv
that. 'Tis asier said than done. Ye can't grow flowers in a granite
block, Jawn dear, much less whin th' first shoot 'd be thrampled under
foot without pity. 'Tis aisy