From The Washington Times, June 26, 1913. By Eugene Geary. The good owld names are dyin’ out We called our children dear; No wonder that we’re talked about— It’s worser every year. We used to have the names iv saints An’ marthyrs at our call; To mention them now brings complaints— Och, that’s the worst iv all! There’s Pat an’ Bridget Finnegan, Who called their daughter Maude, An’ may I never sin again, Their youngest b’y is Claude. An’ when me next-dure neighbor’s wife Prisints a young gossoon, He’s doomed to travel all thro’ life As Percy George McCune. Besides, there’s Pether Rafferty, Who hates the owld green sod, Tho’ tisn’t many years since he Was carryin’ the hod. He an’ his wife—‘twould make ye wild— Announce, wid pride an’ glee, The marriage of their only child, Miss Genevieve Maree. The names iv grand owld Irish Kings We’ll never hear them more; Instead they have new-fangled things— Begob, it makes me sore. The hayroes, saints an’ marthyrs, too, No longer have the call. Our race will soon be lost to view— Sure, that’s the worst iv all.