Irish Astronomy

O’RYAN was a man of might

Whin Ireland was a nation,

But poachin’ was his heart’s delight

And constant occupation.

He had an ould militia gun,

And sartin sure his aim was;

He gave the keepers many a run,

And wouldn’t mind the game laws.

St. Pathrick wanst was passin’ by

O’Ryan’s little houldin’,

And, as the saint felt wake and dhry,

He thought he’d enther bould in.

“O’Ryan,” says the saint, “avick!

To praich at Thurles I’m goin’;

So let me have a rasher quick

And a dhrop of Innishowen.”

“No rasher will I cook for you

While betther is to spare, sir,

But here’s a jug of mountain dew,

And there’s a rattlin’ hare, sir.”

St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,

And says he, “Good luck attind you,

And when you’re in your windin’ sheet,

It’s up to heaven I’ll sind you.”

O’Ryan gave his pipe a whiff—

“Them tidin’s is thransportin’,

But may I ax your saintship if

There’s any kind of sportin’?”

St. Pathrick said, “A Lion’s there,

Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer”—

“Bedad,” says Mick, “the huntin’s rare;

St. Pathrick, I’m your man, sir.”

So to conclude my song aright,

For fear I’d tire your patience,

You’ll see O’Ryan any night

Amid the constellations.

And Venus follows in his track

Till Mars grows jealous raally,

But, faith, he fears the Irish knack

Of handling the shillaly.