ely reeled about;
A Thomas cat upon the eaves was shaken from his feet,
And right and left the shutters fell into the startled street.

"It chanced as M. O'Mulligan was fixing something hot,
The spoon was shaken from his hand, as likewise was the pot;
The plaster from the ceiling, too, came raining on his head,
And like a railway-carriage danced the table, chairs, and bed.

"He tore into the entry-way, and 'Stop the jig!' says he:
'Its shakin' down the house ye are, as any one can see;'
But not a soul in all the swarm to dance at all forbore,
And thumping down their brogans came, like hammers on the floor.

"And then the house commenced to sway and strain and groan and crack,
And all the stairs about the place fell crashing, front and back;
The very air was full of dust, and in the walls the rats
Forgot, in newer perils found, all terror of the cats.

"Then swifter flew O'Grady's bow, and 'Mike, me lad,' he roared,
'They'll dance until they haven't left your floor a single board;
It's sperits that they are,' says he, 'and I'm a sperit, too;
And sperit, Mike O'Mulligan, is what we'll make of you!'

"'And sure,' said M. O'Mulligan, though turning rather pale,
'Its quite a handsome ghost ye are, and fit for any jail:
But tell me what I've done to you offinsive in the laste;
And if I don't atone for it, I'm nothing but a baste.'

"'It's faithless to Saint Tammany ye are,' O'Grady cried,--
And wilder, madder, grew the jig as he the fiddle plied,--
'It's faithless to Saint Tammany, who bids the Irishman
Attain the highest office in this country that he can.'

"'Och hone!' says poor O'Mulligan, 'it's pretty well I've done,
To be a School-Commissioner before I'm thirty-one;
'Tis barely just a year to-day since I set out from Cork,
And now, be jabers! don't I hold an office in New York?'

"'Why, true for you, O'Mulligan,' O'Grady roared again;
'But what's a School-Commissioner to what ye should have been?
It's County Clerk, the very laste, an Irishman should be,
And, since you're not, receive the curse of Good Saint Tammany!'

"Then wilder danced the spirit crew, the fiddler gave a scowl;
And scarce could fated Michael raise a good old Irish howl,
When all the timbers in the house went tumbling with a crash,
Reducing M. O'Mulligan to bits as small as hash!

"Take