IRISH ASTRONOMY.

O’Ryan was a man of might Whin Ireland was a nation, But poachin’ was his chief delight And constant occupation. He had an ould militia gun, And sartin sure his aim was; He gave the keepers many a run, And didn’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 whin you’re in your windin’ sheet It’s up to heaven I’ll sind you.” O’Ryan gave his pipe a whiff— “Thim tidin’s is transportin’, 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 thrack, Till Mars grows jealous raally, But, faith, he fears the Irish knack Of handling the—shillaly. Charles Graham Halpine (1829–1868).