Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town Is jest the best on earth; He says there ain't one, up nor down, That's got one half her worth; He says there ain't no other state That's good as ourn, nor near; And all the folks that's good and great Is settled right 'round here.

Says I "D'jer ever travel, Dan?"

"You bet I ain't!" says he; "I tell you what! the place I've got Is good enough fer me!"

He says the other party's fools, 'Cause they don't vote his way; He says the "feeble-minded schools"

Is where they ought ter stay; If he was law their mouths he'd shut, Or blow 'em all ter smash; He says their platform's nawthin' but A great big mess of trash.

Says I, "D'jer ever read it, Dan?"

"You bet I ain't!" says he; "And when I do; well, I tell you, I'll let you know, by gee!"

He says that all religion's wrong 'Cept jest what he believes; He says them ministers belong In jail, the same as thieves; He says they take the blessed Word And tear it all ter shreds; He says their preachin's jest absurd; They're simply leatherheads.

Says I, "D'jer ever hear 'em, Dan?"

"You bet I ain't!" says he; "I'd never go ter _hear_ 'em; no; They make me sick ter _see!_"

Some fellers reckon, more or less, Before they speak their mind, And sometimes calkerlate or guess,-- But them ain't Dan'l's kind.

The Lord knows all things, great or small, With doubt he's never vexed; He, in his wisdom, knows it all,-- But Dan'l Hanks comes next.

Says I, "How d' yer know you're right?"

"How do I _know_?" says he; "Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum!

I'm right because I _be_!"

THE TIN PEDDLER

Jason White has come ter town Drivin' his tin peddler's cart, Pans a-bangin' up an' down Like they'd tear theirselves apart; Kittles rattlin' underneath, Coal-hods sc.r.a.pin' out a song,-- Makes a feller grit his teeth When old Jason comes along.

Jason drives a sorrel mare, Bones an' skin at all her j'ints, "Blooded stock," says Jase; "I swear, Jest see how she shows her p'ints!

Walkin' 's her best lay," says he, Eyes a-twinklin' full of fun, "Named her Keely Motor. See?

Sich hard work ter make her run."

Jason's jest the slickest scamp, Full of jokes as he can hold; Says he beats Aladdin's lamp, Givin' out new stuff fer old; "Buy your rags fer more 'n they're worth, Give yer bran'-new, shiny tin, I'm the softest snap on earth,"

Says old Jason, with a grin.

Jason gits the women's ear Tellin' news and talkin' dress; Can 't be peddlin' forty year An' not know 'em more or less; Children like him; sakes alive!

Why, my Jim, the other night, Says, "When I git big I'll drive Peddler's cart, like Jason White!"

"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS"

Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer; She's allers doin' loony things, unheard of fur and near.

One time there wa'n't no limit ter the distance she would tramp Ter get a good-fer-nothin', wuthless, cancelled postage-stamp; Another spell folks couldn't rest ontil, by hook or crook, She got 'em all ter write their names inside a leetle book; But though them fits was bad enough, the wust is nowadays, Fer now she's got that pesky freak, the photygraphin' craze.

She had ter have a camera--and them things cost a sight-- So she took up subscriptions fer the "Woman's Home Delight"

And got one fer a premium--a blamed new-fangled thing, That takes a tin-type sudden, when she presses on a spring; And sence she got it, sakes alive! there's nothin' on the place That hain't been pictured lookin' like a horrible disgrace: The pigs, the cows, the horse, the colt, the chickens large and small; She goes a-gunnin' fer 'em, and she bags 'em, one and all.

She tuk me once a-settin' up on top a load er hay: My feet shets out the wagon, and my head's a mile away; She took her Ma in our back yard, a-hanging out the clothes, With hands as big as buckets, and a face that's mostly nose.

A yard of tongue and monstrous teeth is what she calls a dog; The cat's a kind er fuzzy-lookin' shadder in a fog; And I've got a suspicion that what killed the brindle calf Was that he seen his likeness in our Sary's photygraph.

She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time; She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime: Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show, With freaks and framed outrages stuck all 'round 'em in a row: But soon I'll take them picters, and I'll fetch some of 'em out And hang 'em 'round the garden when the corn begins ter sprout; We'll have no crows and blackbirds ner that kind er feathered trash, 'Cause them photygraphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash.

WHEN PAPA'S SICK

When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes!

Such awful, awful times it makes.

He speaks in, oh! such lonesome tones, And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans, And rolls his eyes and holds his head, And makes Ma help him up to bed, While Sis and Bridget run to heat Hot-water bags to warm his feet, And I must get the doctor _quick_,-- We have to _jump_ when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick Ma has to stand Right 'side the bed and hold his hand, While Sis, she has to fan an' fan, For he says he's "a dyin' man,"

And wants the children round him to Be there when "sufferin' Pa gets through"; He says he wants to say good-by And kiss us all, and then he'll die; Then moans and says his "breathin''s thick",-- It's awful sad when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick he acts that way Until he hears the doctor say, "You've only got a cold, you know; You'll be all right 'n a day or so"; And then--well, say! you ought to see-- He's different as he can be, And growls and swears from noon to night Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right; And all he does is fuss and kick,-- We're _all_ used up when Papa's sick.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE BALLAD OF McCARTY'S TROMBONE

Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone On the top av a hill be the town av Athione, And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone, That he played in an iligant style av his own.

And often I've heard me ould grandfather say, That, long as he lived, on Saint Patherick's Day, the minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray McCarty would rise and this tune he would play:

"Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes, Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'!"

With tootin' and blowin' he kept it a-goin', For rest was a thing he was scornin'; And thim that were lazy could niver lie aisy, But jumped out av bed at the warnin'; For who could be stayin' aslape with him playin'

"Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'?"

And thin whin the b'ys would fall in fer parade, McCarty'd be gay with his b.u.t.tons and braid, And whin he stipped out fer ter head the brigade, Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played:

"By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells, Toot--tetoot toot--toot--toot--dells!"

And--the heel av--McCart--y's--boot Marked--the time at--iv'--ry--toot, While--the slide at--aich--ba.s.s--note Seemed--ter slip half--down--his throat, As--he caught his--breath--be--spells:-- "By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells!"

Now McCarty he lived ter be wrinkled and lean, But he died wan fine day playin' "Wearin' the green,"

And they sould the ould horn to a British spalpeen, And it bu'st whin he tried ter blow "G.o.d save the Queen";

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.