Classic Poem

A VERITABLE MYTH, TOUCHING THE CONSTELLATION OF O'R YAN, IGNORANTLY AND FALSELY SPELLED O RION

O'R YAN was a man of might
— Whin Ireland was a nation,
But poachin' was his heart's delight
— And constant occupation.
He had an ould militia 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, when 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.