THE IRISH POKER-CLUB.
Copyright, 1891, by Willis Woodward & Co.
Words and Music by Joe Hart.
'Twas up in Reilly's garret, ev'ry Friday night,
The "ten-cent-limit" poker-club would gather;
They started in December-they had just ten members;
You'll find them there in rain or snowy weather;
McDougel was the banker, buttons were the chips;
A dollar's worth he gave to each of them.
With all their pipes well lit, to pass a pleasant night,
They'd cut the cards and the game it would begin.
Sweeney he would antic, Reilly then would deal,
McSorley was the bluffer and the pot he'd try to steal;
Casey held four aces, the best hand in the poker,
When Riley said you've only three, sure, the other one is the joker.
Poor Casey he got broke, his buttons were all gone,
But quietly he sat there just the same;
I've an idea now said he, his face lit up with glee,
I know how I can still stay in the game;
Then he took out his jack-knife, opened the big blade,
And kept a weather-eye upon the rest.
Then he began to cough to keep from getting caught,
And he cut all the buttons off his vest.
Reilly dropped onto him, fighting then began,
And Casey got his nose between the teeth of Flannigan;
The "cops" came in And "pulled "them, such ructions they did raise,
No more at poker will they play again for thirty days.