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Friday, March 16, 2007
Irish Astronomy Charles Graham Halpine O'Ryan was a man of might Whin Ireland was a nation, But poachin' was his heart's delight And constant occupation. He had an ould milita gun, And sartin sure his aim was; He gave the keepers many a run, And wouldn't mind the game laws St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by O'Ryan's little houldin', And, as the saint felt wake and dhry He thought he'd enther bould in. "O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick! To praich at Thurles I'm goin'; So let me have a rasher quick, And a dhrop of Innishowen." "No rasher will I cook for you While betther is to spare, sir, But here's a jug of mountain dew, And there's a rattlin' hare, sir." St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet, And says he, "Good luck attind you, And whin you're in your windin' sheet, It's up to heaven I'll sind you." O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff-- "Them tidin's is thransportin', But may I ax your saintship if There's any kind of sportin'?" St. Pathrick said, "A Lion's there, Two Bears, a Bull and Cancer"-- "Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare; St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir." So to conclude my song aright, For fear I'd tire your patience You'll see O'Ryan any night, Amid the constellations. And Venus follows in his track Till Mars grows jealous raally, But, faith, he fears the Irish knack Of handling the shillaly. |
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