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Same Old Story

BY HARRY B. SMITH.

History, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;
Men are only habit's slaves; we see it every day.
Life has done its best for me-I find it tiresome still;
For nothing's everything at all, and everything is nil.
Same old get-up, dress, and tub;

Same old breakfast; some old club;
Same old feeling; same old blue;
Same old story-nothing new!

Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;
Woman? She'll be true to you as long as you have

wealth;

Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could

strike;

But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.
Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;
Same old kisses; same old sighs;
Same old chaff you; same adieu;
Same old story-nothing new!

Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;
Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood's

days;

Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears, Starving, homeless, in the snow-with diamonds in her

ears.

Same stern father making "bluffs;"
Leading man all teeth and cuffs;

Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;

Same old story-nothing new!

Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!
Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;

Talked about that "kiddy," and became a dreadful bore-
Just as if a baby never had been born before.

Same old crying, only more;
Same old business, walking floor;
Same old "kitchy-coochy-coo!"
Same old baby-nothing new!

Cornaylius Ha-ha-ha

hannigan*

BY T. A. DALY.

'Twas the godfather stuttered, or mayhap the priest;
But, be that as it may, it is certain, at least,
That the wan or the other was surely to blame
Fur presentin' the lad the quare twisht to his name.
For there at the christ'nin,

Wid iv'ry wan list'nin,

Now didn't his Riverence, Father O'Flannigan,
Wid nervousness stam'rin,

Bechune the child's clam'rin',

Baptize it, "Cornaylius Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!"

Wid these words from the priest, shure, the cute little

rogue

Up an' stopped his own mouth wid his chubby kithogue,
An' the dimples broke out an' prosaded to chase

All the tears an' the frowns from his innocent face.
For, faix, he was afther
Absorbin' the laughter

Stuck into his name by good Father O'Flannigan!
Now that's the thruth in it,

An' so from that minute,

Shure, iv'ry wan called the lad "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan." Now, the "ha! ha! ha!" stuck to him close as his name, For the sorra a tear could be drownin' the same. Not a care iver touched him from that blissid day, But his gift o' the laughther would drive it away. Wid jokin' an' chaffin'

He niver stopped laughin',

Or if he did stop he immejiate began agin';
An' iv'ry wan hearin'

His laughther so cheerin',

Jisht j'ined in the mirth o' young "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan."

Shure, the throubles o' life are so palthry an' small 'Tis a pity we let thim disthurb us at all.

[From "Conzoni." Copyright, 1906, by T. A. Daly.]

There is niver a care but would l'ave us in p'ace
If we'd only stand up an' jisht laugh in its face.
Faix, life were a pleasure

If all had the treasure

Conferred so unthinkin' by Father O'Flannigan.
If all could but borrow

That cure-all for sorrow

Possessed by "Cornaylius Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!"

The Irish Bachelor*

BY T. A. DALY.

Here fur yer pity or scorn, I'm presentin' ye
Jerry McGlone.

Trustin' the life of him will be preventin' ye
Marrin' yer own.

Think of a face wid a permanint fixture of
Looks that are always suggistin' a mixture of
Limmons an' vinegar. There! ye've a pixture of
Jerry McGlone.

Faix, there is nothin' but sourest gloom in this
Jerry McGlone.

Chris'mas joy, anny joy, niver finds room in this
Crayture of stone.

Cynical gloom is the boast an' the pride of him;
An' if a laugh iver did pierce the hide of him,
Faix, I belave 'twould immajiate, inside of him,
Change to a groan.

Whist; now, an' listen. I'll tell ye the throuble wid
Jerry McGlone.

He preferred single life rather than double wid
Molly Malone.

Think of it! Think of an Irishman tarryin'
While there's a purty girl wishful fur marryin'!
Arrah! no wonder the divils are harryin'
Jerry McGlone.

[From "Conzoni." Copyright, 1906, by T. A. Daly.]

Ah! but there's few o' the race but would scorn to be

Jerry McGlone.

Shure, we all know that a Celt is not born to be

Livin' alone.

O! but we're grateful (I spake for the laity),
Grateful fur women, the bountiful Deity,
Dowers wid beauty an' virtue an' gaiety,
All for our own!

Da Comica Man*

BY T. A. DALY.

Giacobbe Finelli, so funy; O! my!

By tweestin' hees face an' by weenkin' hees eye,
He maka you laugh teel you theenk you weel die.
He don't gotta say som'theeng; all he ess do
Ees maka da face an', how moocha you try,
You no can help laugh w'en he lookin' at you—
Giacobbe Finelli so funny, O! my!

I deeg een da tranch weeth Giacobbe wan day;
Giacobbe ees toss up da spadefulla clay,
An' beeg Irish boss he ees gat een da way!
Da boss he ess look at Giacobbe an' swear
So bad as he can, but Giacobbe, so sly,
He maka pretand he no see he was dere—
Giacobbe Finelli, so funny; O! my!

But w'en da boss turn an' ees starta for go,
Giacobbe look up an' he mak' da face-So!
I laugh an' I laugh lika deesa-Ho! ho!
De boss he com' back an' he poncha my head.
He smasha my nose an' be blacka my eye-
I no can help laugh eff I gona be dead.
Giacobbe Finelli so funny; O! my!

[From "Conzoni." Copyright, 1906, by T. A. Daly.]

The Widow Malone

BY CHARLES LEVER.

Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone?

Oh, she melted the hearts

Of the swains in them parts,
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone,

Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more;

And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;

From the minister down

To the Clerk of the Crown,

All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,
'Twas known

No one ever could see her alone,
Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one, Mister O'Brien from Clare

How quare,

It's little for blushing they care,

Down there

Put his arm round her waist,

Gave ten kisses at laste

"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own!"

"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone!"

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