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.  

 

  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 buttons and braid, And whin he stipped out fer ter head the brigade, Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played:      

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