Tag: Eugene Geary

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.

From The Washington Times, May 29, 1913.
 By Eugene Geary.
 

 Pat Clancy’s in love! He’s a sight to behold;
     An’ his life—he wants some wan to fill it.
 Instead o’ being crowded wid blessin’s untold,
     ’Tis as empty an’ dry as a skillet.
 A short while ago he was gay as a lark,
     An’ the boss was his wages advancin’;
 Till he strolled of a Sunday to see Celtic Park
     An’ join in the games an’ the dancin’.
 ’Twas when he took part in an eight-handed reel
     And danced, as they all tell me, so splendid,
 His head remained clear, not to mention his heel,
     But his heart was clean gone when ’twas ended.
 A pair o’ blue eyes was Pat Clancy’s downfall;
     ’Tis a sorrowful mortal they’ve made him.
 He’s cut all his friends an’ relations an’ all,
     An’ he won’t take a drink if you paid him.
 The boss of his gang, from the town o’ Kanturk
     Don’t know what to make out o’ Clancy;
 Says the divil himself couldn’t keep him to work
     Wid sighin’ for the girl of his fancy.
 An’ ’tis all for a purty young colleen from Clare—
     She hails from the border of Ennis.
 Well, if that’s what’s called love, for my part I declare
     Sure I’d rather have spinal magennis.