T. A. (Thomas Augustine) Daly.

Canzoni and Songs of wedlock online

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Was nothin' finer than the way
He cared for poor old Uncle Jay,
Who was the most unlucky han'
For havin' trouble with his Ian'
'Bout taxes, or the early spring
Plowin', or some other thing
That plumb upsot the poor old man.
Then, in the nick o' time, our Dan
Steps in, and sez, " Don't fret," sez he,
" Suppose you leave all that to me."

It got to be that Uncle Jay
He couldn't git along no way
Without our Dan, an' our Dan he


Jest cared fur him unselfishly.
An' when the old man come to die
Our Dan, o' course, was right close by.
Sez Uncle Jay: " I'm worrit, Dan,
'Bout what's to come of all my Ian'
An' all my money out at loan,
An' in the bank, when I am gone."
Then Dan, he ups an' sez, sez he:
" Suppose you leave all that to me."



" "pvEAR Nell," he wrote, " these violets
\J I've made so bold to send to you

Shall be my mute ambassadors;
And each shall tell how deep and true

The sender's love is, craving yours

For him. What messengers more meet?

Are they not typical of you,
They are so sweet? "

" Dear Jack," she wrote, " your violets
Have just this moment been received.

Their message took me by surprise,
'Twas something scarce to be believed.

I send my answer back with them;
What fitter messengers for you?

So typical of how you'll feel
They are so blue! "




DUBLIN ALLEY jisht was crazy, jubilation
was the rule,
Chewsday week whin Kitty Casey won the honors

at the school.

Sure, the neighbors had been waitin', all impa-
tient of delay,
For to see her graduatin' on that most important

Eddication is a power, an' we owned wid one

Casey's girl's the sweetest flower ever blossomed

in the ward,
Whin, wid dress white as the daisy, but wid

cheeks that shamed the rose,
We beheld wee Kitty Casey in her graduation


Now, this Casey loved his daughther in a most in-
dulgent way,

An 7 he spent his gold like wather for her grad-
uation day.

Sich a dale of great preparin'! Sure, ye'd think
she was a bride;

Sorra hair was Casey carin' for a blessed thing


For whin Casey once comminces, faith, he niver

stops at all,
An' he dressed her like a princess at a Coronation

An 7 'twas Madame Brigette Tracy for dressmaker

that he chose,
For to fit out Kitty Casey in her graduation


Of dressmakers, now, the oddest was this one

that Casey'd got,
For her bill-heads called her " Modiste," though

the prices there did not.
" But," sez Casey, " I can stan' it for to pay a

few more cints,
So jisht go ahead an' plan it, ma'am, raygardless

of ixpinse."
" Bong Moonseer," sez she, " I'll try it if she

have the c savoir fair.' "
" As fur that," sez Casey, " buy it, wid the other

things she'll wear."
So ye see the man was crazy for to get the best

that goes
For his little Kitty Casey in her graduation



All the women jisht were itchin' for to see her
gettin' dressed,

Some were crowded in the kitchen an' the stair-
way, while the rest,

The most favored ones, wint rushin' to the livin'
room above,

Where stood Mrs. Casey blushin' wid a mother's
pride an' love.

" Oh! " sez she, " 'twould be a pity if I couldn't
schame an' plan

So that Kitty'd look as pritty as Mag Ryan's
Mary Ann."

" Tut! ye needn't be onaisy," sez a neighbor.
" Goodness knows,

There'll be none like Kitty Casey in her grad-
uation clo'es."

An' there's really no denyin', whin they marched

into the hall
Kitty Casey pushed the Ryan girl complately to

the wall.
Whin she made her prize oration an' they gave

her her degree,
There was sich a dimonstration as ye'll niver live

to see,

For the men from Dublin Alley voiced their feel-
in's in a cheer


Like they utther whin they rally in a Dimmy-

cratic year,
An' of Casey's proudest days he counts that best

of all he knows
Which beheld his Kitty Casey in her graduation




1AM so good for evratheeng
I oughta be electa Keeng!
Ees no som'body else at all
So strong like me, so beeg, so tall,
An' no som'body else can do
So greata theengs like I can, too.
How mooch you try you no can be
So fina bigga man like me.
You bat my life! I oughta gat
A crown for wear eenside my hat,
An' makin' all da style I can,
Baycause I am so granda man.
All dees ees true. Eh? how I know?
My leetla boy he tal me so.

You maka fun weeth me an' tease,
An' call me " Dago " eef you please;
An' mebbe so I what you call
" No good for anytheeng at all,"
An' you weell theenk you speaka true
Baycause eet looka so to you.
Wai, mebbe som' time you are right,
But not w'en I gat home at night.


Ha! dat'sa time dat I am Keeng
An' 1 am good for evratheeng!
I know; baycause Patricio,
My leetla boy, he tal me so.



EES playnta reecha ladies com'
By dees peanutta-stan';
I like to watcha dem, for som'

Ees looka justa gran'.
Dey got so fina hat an' dress,

An' evratheeng so clean,
Most any Keeng be proud, I guess,

For calla one hees Queen.
Beeg Irish cop say: " Looka dat!

I tal you she's a peach!
Dat's kinda wife a man can gat

Eef he ees only reech."
I theenk of Angela, my wife,

An' weesha: "My, O! my,
Eef she like dat, you bat my life,

I would be satisfi'."

But den I theenk, su'pose my wife

Was beautiful like dees;
I would be frighten of my life

To aska her for keess.
I would be scare' to hug her so

Like w'at I always do
To Angela, baycause, you know,

She mebbe bust in two.


Baysides, my Angela she gat

My baby at her breas';
Eet mighta not be lika dat

Eef she was reech, I guess.
No reecha lady coulda be

So pritta eef she try,
Like Angela ees look to me,

So I am satisfi'.



1LOVE these frosty mornings,
When all the outer air
Is tingling with a freshness
And vim beyond compare.

The north-wind in the tree-tops
Proclaims the coming dawn,

And sends the crisp leaves rattling
Across the frozen lawn.

From some adjacent farmyard

A watchful chanticleer,
With raucous, joyous crowing

Assails the atmosphere.

Then, nearer home, a watchdog,
Awakened from his sleep,

Gives voice to his resentment
In tones prolonged and deep.

A wagon, bound for market,
Goes creaking down the road.

I hear the axles groaning
Beneath the heavy load.


The light grows at my window,

And on the pane, I see,
Jack Frost has limned a picture

Of silvery tracery.

Now, from the servants' stairway,
Slow feet descend the hall;

And then a kitchen shutter
Bangs out against the wall.

I love, these frosty mornings,
To note these things, and then

To draw the bed-clothes closer.
And go to sleep again.



BE patient! Be a Christian and forbear
To objurgate the Weather-man and swear
Because the sting of winter's in the air.

Do you remember

Those days in June, a few short months ago,
Whose scorching heat oppressed and baked you

And made you yearn the blest relief to know

Of cool September?

And when September came and in its train
Brought days of frost and days of sodden rain,
Good gracious! how you kicked and growled

Do you remember?

Those summer days will soon have come once


And you'll forget how bitterly you swore
At all the winter weather gone before.

Will you remember,
When you are sweltering in mid- July,
The flakes, frost-feathered, that were wont to fly
From out the windy reaches of the sky,
This past December?


Meantime, if you should die and you should get
Your just desserts, with O! what vain regret,
These winter days (because they're cold and wet)
You will remember!



HE'S a-comin', he's a-comin'!
An' he sets the town a-buzz.
Though they ain't as many of 'im

As what they useter wuz.
He's a-growin' more important
Jest because he's dyin' out.
The G. A. R.'s a-comin',
"Hats off! " along the rout'.

He's a-comin', he's a-comin'!

An' a grateful people tries
To bring the light o' gladness

To the old-time fighter's eyes.
So the old flag waves above 'im,

An' he hears the people shout:
" The G. A. R.'s a-comin',

Hats off along the rout'! "

He's a-marchin', he's a-marchin'l

There's a reminiscent touch
Of his bearin' in the " Sixties "

In the way he slings his crutch,
As he marches ever onward

To the last Great Muster-out.
The G. A. R.'s a-comin'!

" Hats off! " along the rout'.



HERE'S a whole ship-load of sweet femi-

Girls of the Sod!
Faith! but I'm glad to be in the vicinity.

Here with me hod,
Mortar and bricks have engaged me this solid


O! but I wish I was dressed fur a holiday!
Wouldn't I show ye the taste of a jolly day,
Girls of the Sod?

Let me stand by in this workaday guise of mine,

Girls of the Sod,
O! but the sight of ye moistens these eyes of mine.

Isn't it odd?

Maybe the view of yer solemn processional
Out of the ship, as it were a confessional,
Carries my heart in a tour retrogressional

Back to the Sod.

O! I am thinkin' 'twas jisht a mistake of ye

L'avin' the Sod.
All that is best ye have left in the wake of ye,

There where ye trod

Fields that were full of the sweetness that's bless-
in' ye


Fresh with the breezes so fond of caressin' ye
O! but there's many a heart will be missin' ye,
Girls of the Sod!

There ye reaped joy if ye only were knowin' it,

Here 'twill be odd
If what ye're reapin' will pay ye fur sowin' it,

Girls of the Sod.

Arrah! No wonder ye're lookin' so serious,
This is a country to make ye delirious,
Toilin' an' moilin' to serve the imperious

Mammon, its god.

Listen to me an' I'll have the whole crowd of ye

Back to the Sod,
Back to the valleys that love and are proud of ye,

Girls of the Sod!

Ireland needs ye, her love that has girt ye there
Yearns fur ye still an' will 1'ave no thin' hurt ye

Gold isn't counted like goodness and virtue there,

Thanks be to God!

Still if there's wan of ye bent upon tarryin',

Girls of the Sod,
Did I not mintion the merits o' marryin'

I'd be a clod.


So if ye're needin' the love of a merry man,
Merry but sober, a dacint young Kerry man,
Faith, I could whishper the name of the very

Give me a nod!



TWAS a city sparrow, wise and debonair,
Idly loafing through the country with his

Stupid country birds were building everywhere,
For the nesting-time was growing very late,
But the sparrow, with his lady,
In a tree-top, cool and shady,
Gazed with scorn upon the work and twittered:
" Stuff! "

To his mate he chirruped shrilly:
" Isn't all this labor silly,
When a roosting-place at night is quite enough? "

'Twas a motherly old robin, near at hand,

Who was busy at her building with the rest,
And she turned upon the sparrows to demand
How they meant to hatch their eggs without a

" Such impertinence! " half sadly
Said the sparrow; " and yet gladly
I'll impart to you the knowledge that you beg."
Then, with haughty condescension,
He remarked: " I need but mention
That it's possible to obviate the egg."


'Twas a congress of the birds of every sort,
All indignantly assembled to protest

Their displeasure, when the robin made report
Of the threatened abolition of the nest;
And they spoke of it as " awful! "
" Selfish," " scandalous," " unlawful,"

And they prophesied " the country's speedy fall."
But the sparrows, quite disdaining
All this ignorant complaining,

Simply went their way, unmindful of it all.

'Twas a sage old owl, a very solemn bird,

Sat and listened while his feathered fellows


Never once he oped his mouth to say a word,
But he did a lot of thinking and he thought:
" So the sparrows think it best
To abolish eggs and nest.
Well, perhaps the wisdom isn't theirs at all,
But a plan of good Dame Nature's
To eliminate such creatures.
Let them have their way; the loss is mighty



IF I should sing of " Mary "
Don't think that that's her name.
My colleen bawn's conthrary
And doesn't care for fame.
She sez 'twould make her fidget

To see her name in print,
So I can't sing of Murther!
I nearly gev a hint!

She likes to watch me writin'

A sonnet to her eyes,
In poethry recitin'

The love that in me lies,
But holds one rosy digit,

Resthrainin' of me pen,
For fear I'll mintion Musha!

I almost wrote it then.

So whin the names of Nora,

An' Nell an' Kate, betimes,
Or Mary, Rose or Dora

Are mintioned in me rhymes,
They mean that modest midget,

That charmin' little elf,
Whose name is O! I'll 1'ave ye

To guess her name yerself .



THE graybeard glories in the past
And prates of " good old days."
These times are out of joint, he growls,

And sneers at modern ways.
He shakes his head at every move

That's up-to-date and new,
And everything you do is just

The thing you shouldn't do.
It's: " Mercy save us! Look at that!

We're slidin' back, I fear.
The parish isn't what it was

Whin Father Mack was here."

" The weddin's now are not as fine

As weddin's used to be,
An', faith, they're not so numerous

At all, at all," says he.
" Then, christ'nin's, too, were plentiful

An' carried out wid style;
'Twould warm your heart to see them there

A-crowdin' up the aisle.
An' sermons! How the crowds would come

To listen! Dear, O! dear,
The parish isn't what it was

Whin Father Mack was here."


Yet, from a study of the rolls
And records, 'twould appear

The parish claimed but fifty souls
When Father Mack was here.

62 C A N Z O N I


WHEN ground is broken on the site
For your new church, some busy

Is certain to assume the right
To pose as chief inspector.
He deems it quite the thing that he
Should represent the laity,
And watch the builder's work and see
He doesn't cheat the rector.

Of course the whole thing's badly planned,
He tells you, and you understand
How good it is that he's at hand

To check some greater blunder.
The mortar's bad. He breaks a crumb
Between his finger and his thumb,
And shakes his head and murmurs, " Bum!

Who sold 'em that, I wonder? "

Thus after church each Sunday morn,
With mingled pity, grief and scorn,
He goes about on his forlorn
Grim duty of inspection.


But, no, not every Sunday though
That statement's not exactly so
Some Sundays you take up, you know,
The building fund collection.



HERE fur yer pity or scorn, I'm presintin' ye
Jerry McGlone.
Trustin' the life of him will be previntin' ye

Marrin' yer own.

Think of a face wid a permanint fixture of
Looks that are always suggistin' a mixture of
Limmons an' vinegar. There! yeVe a pixture of
Jerry McGlone.

Faix, there is nothin' but sourest gloom in this

Jerry McGlone.
Chris'mas joy, anny joy, niver finds room in this

Crayture of stone.

Cynical gloom is the boast an 7 the pride of him,
An' if a laugh iver did pierce the hide of him,
Faix, I believe 'twould immajiate, inside of him,

Change to a groan.

Whisht! now, an' listen. I'll tell ye the throuble

Jerry McGlone.
He preferred single life rather than double wid

Molly Malone.
Think of it! Think of an Irishman tarryin'


While there's a purty girl wishful fur marryin'I
Arrah! no wonder the divils are harryin'
Jerry McGlone.

Ah! but there's few o' the race but would scorn
to be

Jerry McGlone.
Sure, we all know that a Celt is not born to be

Livin' alone.

O! but we're grateful (I spake for the laity)
Grateful fur women the bountiful Deity
Dowers wid beauty an' virtue an' gaiety,

All for our own!



1LOVE thee, dear, for what thou art,
Nor would I wish thee otherwise,
For when thy lashes lift apart

I read, deep-mirrored in thine eyes,
The glory of a modest heart.

Wert thou as fair as thou art good,
It were not given to any man,

With daring eyes of flesh and blood,
To look thee in the face and scan

The splendor of thy womanhood.



LAST night the winter's rear-guard passed
In utter rout through lane and street;
With faint and fainter bugle-blast

The North-wind sounded the retreat.
Far echoes of the stubborn flight

Crept backward from the distant hill,
Stray stragglers lurched across the night,

But soon were gone, and all was still.
Then vaguely, through the pregnant hush,

The murmur of a marching host
Surged swiftly onward as the rush

Of breakers on a level coast,
Until up-swelled through lane and street,

In swift crescendo thundering,
The drums of Southern rain that beat

Reveille to the waking Spring.

O! glad gray army of the South!

Our sky is your triumphal arch.
Nor deed of arms nor word of mouth

Shall here oppose your onward march.
The little children of the North,

Long captive to the winter's cold,
Impatient yearn to sally forth

And tread the fields of green and gold.


For, love of life renewed, we greet
With joy your conquest, welcoming

Invading drums of rain that beat
Reveille to the waking Spring.



1HAVE only poor words to send you in time
for this Christmas Day;
My wonted gift of the season must suffer a slight

Though I had what I felt would please you, I

find that it will not do,

And I needs must wait till the morrow to pur-
chase a gift for you.

I had you in mind this morning. The thought of

you bade me drop
My daily cares for the moment and hie to the

bookman's shop,
The shop that we haunted so often, down there in

the little back street,
In the days when we slaved together over ledger

and balance-sheet
And squandered our hard-earned pennies for an

intellectual treat.
You remember those shelves in the corner where

you discovered your Burns
And I unearthed those treasures of Congreve's,

Smollett's and Sterne's?


Well, there's where I looked this morning in

search of a gift for you,
And I saw what I thought would please you, but

I find that it will not do.

Twas the title, " She Stoops to Conquer," that
arrested my roving eye,

And the make of the volume pleased me and
prompted me to buy.

So I tucked it away in my pocket, with only a
casual look

To the points that are most essential in a thor-
oughly " givable " book.

But to-night in my hearthside leisure, ere posting
it off to you,

I imposed on myself the duty to examine it
through and through.

I was rather shocked at the cover, and vexed that
I had not seen

How the russet calf was mottled with mildew-
spots of green.

Then the title-page is rather a trifle the worse for

And it really cost me an effort to read the an-
nouncement there

That the book was " printed for Griffiths," and
the smaller line below:


"To be had of Timothy Becket in Paternoster

I discover the date of the printing is 1774.

Was it after the author's exit, I wonder, or be-

The thought that this book had being in the very
year of his death,

Perhaps in the very hour that claimed his de-
parting breath,

Makes misty the reader's vision and carries the
fancy back

To the times and the haunts of the genius, poet
and bookman's hack.

What phantasies, sweet and tender, out of that
golden age,

March by in the time-dimmed type of the
quaintly printed page!

But, pshaw! I am boring you, surely, with this
sort of folderol;

You never were partial as I am to " poor old lov-
able Noll."

The book's well enough in its fashion, but it
wouldn't be proper to send

A thing well so battered and shabby as a holi-
day gift to a friend.


As I told you, the old leather cover is very much

mildewed and worn,
And a few of the pages are dog-eared and others

are torn.
I thought at first sight it would please you, but

I find that it will not do,
So I needs must wait till the morrow to purchase

a gift for you.
I've only " God-bless-you " to send you in time

for this Christmas Day,
But my wonted gift of the season will follow.

Forgive the delay.



YOU knowa Giovanni, da musica man?
He playa da harpa, he playa pian',
For maka da mona wherevra he can.
Da styleesha peopla dey geeve heem da chance
For maka da music for helpa dem dance.

He playa da music so gooda, so gran',
He tal me, da ladies dey calla heem " sweet "
An' geeve heem da playnta good fooda for eat.
I like be Giovanni, da musica man.

Giovanni, da musica man, he ees fat,
An' sleepy an' lazy so lika da cat,
So moocha da dreenkin' an' eatin' he gat.
I gotta da music eensida my heart;
I weesh I have also da musical art

For mak' eet com' outa my heart like he can,
An' filla my stomach weeth fooda for eat.
I digga da tranch; I work hard on da street

I like be Giovanni, da musica man.



1 HONOR more the merry wight
Who, though he curbs his appetite,
Still takes a social beaker,
Than any Prohibition crank
Who prates about the " water-tank."
I hate a temperance speaker.

So, come, lift up a brimming cup

To all who've wit to use it.
And let it be our boast that we

May use but not abuse it.

Kind Nature brings her gift of wine

That Thought may glow, that Wit may shine,

And shall we then reject her?
'Tis true the sodden sot's a beast,
But he's a death's-head at the feast

Who will not touch the nectar.

Once more! Lift up a brimming cup

To all who've wit to use it.
And let it be our boast that we

May use but not abuse it.


What need to men of common sense
Is any " total abstinence "?

There's shimply nothin' to it.
What harm to use th' good ole stuff
If you (hie) shtop when you've enough?

That'sh way that I (hie) do it.

Whoopla! fill up a brimmin' cup

To all (hie) wit t' ushe it.
(Hie) let (hie) be ou' boash (hie) we

(Wow! !) ushe (whoop!) not (hie) 'buzhe it.



IGATTA mash weeth Mag McCue,
An' she ees 'Mericana, too!
Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mebbe so,
You weell no calla me so slow
Eef som' time you can looka see
How she ees com' an' flirt weeth me.
Most evra two, free day, my frand,
She stops by dees peanutta-stand
An' smile an' mak' da googla-eye
An' justa look at me an' sigh.
An' alia time she so excite*
She peeck som' fruit an' taka bite.
O! my, she eesa look so sweet
I no care how much fruit she eat.
Me? I am cool an' mak' pretand
I want no more dan be her frand;
But een my heart, you bat my life,
I theenk of her for be my wife.

To-day I theenk: " Now I weell see
How moocha she ees mash weeth me,"
An' so I speak of dees an' dat,
How moocha playnta mon' I gat,
How mooch I makin' evra day


An' w'at I spand an' put away.

An' den I ask, so queeck, so sly:

" You theenk som' pretta girl weell try

For lovin' me a leetla beet? "

O! my! she eesa blush so sweet!

"An 7 eef I ask her lika dees

For geevin' me a leetla keess,

You s'pose she geeve me wan or two? "

She tal me: " Twanty-t'ree for you! "

An' den she laugh so sweet, an' say:

" Skeeddoo! Skeeddoo! " an' run away.

She like so mooch for keessa me

She gona geeve me twanty-t'ree!

I s'pose dat w'at she say " skeeddoo "

Ees alia same " I lova you."

Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mebbe so

You weell no calla me so slow I



1 WONDER if she knows how much
My heart cries out for her dear heart.
I wonder if she's felt the touch,
The joyous thrill, the bitter smart
Of Cupid's dart.

I wonder.

I wonder what she'll say to me
When I have told my tale to-night.

O! will it be my fate to be
Transported to the sun-kissed height
Of sheer delight?
I wonder.

I wonder if I'll tell my tale
At all! I've often tried before.

By Jove! I feel my courage fail,
And here, a timid mouse once more,
On past her door
I wander.



/~\ HANGE is the order in man's estate,

V^/ Times have changed and the customs, too;

Everything now must be up-to-date.

Things old-fashioned will never do.

Even the names that our fathers knew
Jonas, Zachary, Zebedee

Fashion adjures us we must eschew.
What will the names of To-morrow be?

Patronymics with frills ornate,
Out of the roots of the old names grew.

" Kathryn " cooed in the arms of " Kate,"
" Hugo " lisped at the knees of " Hugh."
Nursery walls of the wealthy few

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Online LibraryT. A. (Thomas Augustine) DalyCanzoni and Songs of wedlock → online text (page 2 of 5)