DAN O'SULLIVAN

By James Whitcomb Riley

Dan O'Sullivan: It's your

Lips have kissed “The Blarney,” sure!—

To be trillin’ praise av me,

Dhrippin’ swhate wid poethry!—

Not that I'd not have ye sing —

Do n't lave off for anything —

Jusht be aisy whilst the fit

Av me head shwells up to it!

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man,

Whilst yer singin’, loike ye can,

To cry shtop because ye've blesht

My songs more than all the resht:—

I'll not be the b'y to ax

Any shtar to wane or wax,

Or ax any clock that's woun’

To run up inshtid av down!

Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!—

Him that made the Irishman

Mixt the birds in wid the dough,

And the dew and mistletoe

Wid the whusky in the quare

Muggs av us — and here we air,

Three parts right, and three parts wrong,

Shpiked with beauty, wit and song!