Same Old Story BY HARRY B. SMITH. History, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say; Same old breakfast; some old club; Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health; wealth; Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike; But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike. Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays; 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;" Same soubrettes, still twenty-two; Same old story-nothing new! Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy! Talked about that "kiddy," and became a dreadful bore- Same old crying, only more; Cornaylius Ha-ha-ha hannigan* BY T. A. DALY. 'Twas the godfather stuttered, or mayhap the priest; Wid iv'ry wan list'nin, Now didn't his Riverence, Father O'Flannigan, 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, All the tears an' the frowns from his innocent face. Stuck into his name by good Father O'Flannigan! 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'; 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 all had the treasure Conferred so unthinkin' by Father O'Flannigan. 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 Trustin' the life of him will be preventin' ye Think of a face wid a permanint fixture of Faix, there is nothin' but sourest gloom in this Chris'mas joy, anny joy, niver finds room in this Cynical gloom is the boast an' the pride of him; Whist; now, an' listen. I'll tell ye the throuble wid He preferred single life rather than double wid Think of it! Think of an Irishman tarryin' [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), Da Comica Man* BY T. A. DALY. Giacobbe Finelli, so funy; O! my! By tweestin' hees face an' by weenkin' hees eye, I deeg een da tranch weeth Giacobbe wan day; But w'en da boss turn an' ees starta for go, [From "Conzoni." Copyright, 1906, by T. A. Daly.] The Widow Malone BY CHARLES LEVER. Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Who lived in the town of Athlone, Oh, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, Of lovers she had a full score, And fortunes they all had galore, From the minister down To the Clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mrs. Malone, No one ever could see her alone, Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, 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!" |