The clergyman was nonplussed; he quailed before the fiery eyes and sarcastic tongue of the old vixen; and I fancied his face lit up with joy when he discovered that he was nigh a corner, around which he quickly disappeared.
There was a little man, And he had a little dog; And he said: “Little dog, you must stay, stay, stay, Playing here by the house, As peaceful as a mouse, And never hoist your tail and away, ’way, ’way— And never hoist your tail and away.”
Then said this little pup, At its master looking up: “I know, little master, you are cute, cute, cute; But if you will allow Such a question, tell me, now, What the dickens do you want with a brute, brute, brute? What the dickens do _you_ want with a brute?”
Then the little man did stare, And up rose his little hair; And his cheeks with fear grew pale, pale, pale, As he said: “I do propose, Soon as you have found your nose, To kill by the dozen little quail, quail, quail— To kill by the dozen little quail.”
At this the puppy grinned, Like a mischief-making fiend, As he whined: “You cannot come it upon me, me, me. You would have me lie around In a back-yard, like a hound, And become a paradise for the flea, flea, flea— And become a paradise for the flea.”
When the toil of day had flown, Little man, with little bone, Went out where the little dog ought to be, be, be; He whistled, and he called, He patted, and he bawled, But nary little dog could he see, see, see— But nary little dog could he see.
Next day he chanced to stop By a sausage maker’s shop, And something that he saw made him holler, holler, holler; For there in the street, All bloody, at his feet, Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar, collar, collar— Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar.
Erin go bragh! St. Patrick’s day is upon us, and the city seems wrapped in a “mantle of green,” so numerous are the Irish flags flying in the breeze.
From hovel roof, and church of size Alike, the harp and sun-burst flies!
The ear of morn is stunned with the bray of at least a dozen blatant bands, as they discourse Old Erin’s soul-stirring airs. It is an easy matter for a person to imagine himself sitting by some sheeling door in “County Kerry” instead of this great American city by the sea. The Ancient Order of Hibernians and the Fenians are out in full force, with clean-boiled shirts and soap-washed faces. Marshals charge around upon their caparisoned steeds like real heroes, and sitting gracefully as a sack of potatoes upon the back of a spavined mule trotting over a corduroy road. Evidently some of them have never before bent over anything that came nigher to an equine than a saw-horse. It is plain