When good Saint Mail, steered by the Deuce,
Sailed northward in his granite trough,
A devil of a gale broke loose
And carried him a long way off,
Flinging the saint on high and dry land —
As told in Monsieur France's " Penguin Island. "

The zealous father, there and then,
Baptized the birds in his best style,
And, this dispatched, took ship again,
Hitching a cable to the isle.
With no hell-driven gale to blind him,
Southward he sailed, and towed the isle behind him.

Islands to-day are rooted fast,
Obedient to nature's laws.
The age of miracles is past;
A matter for regret, because
The tale of Mail holds a suggestion
For settling the eternal Irish Question.

If that great man could come again
And navigate his magic trough,
If he could tie a good stout chain
To Erin's isle and tow it off —
So far that it would float back never —
The Irish Question would be solved forever.