But the nights av Saint Patherick's Days in Athlone
Folks dare not go by the ould graveyard alone,
For they say that McCarty sits on his tombstone
And plays this sad tune on a phantom trombone:

"The harp that wance through Tara's halls
The sowl av music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that sowl were dead."
And all who've heard the lonesome _keens_
That that grim ghost has blown,
Know well by Tara's harp he means
That batthered ould trombone.

* * * * *

SUSAN VAN DOOZEN

I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty,
To bring to me shekels and fame,
And the only right way one may write one to-day
Is to give it some Irish girl's name.
There's "Rosy O'Grady," that dear "steady lady,"
And sweet "Annie Rooney" and such,
But mine shall be nearly original, really,
For Susan Van Doozen is Dutch.

_O Susan Van Doozen! the girl of my choos'n',_
_You stick in my bosom like glue;