FLANNIGAN'S IRISH CANARY.
Copyright, 1801, by Willis Woodward & Co.
Words and Music by Edgar Selden.
Misther Flannigan dwelled In the swell part of town
Ninety-forth Street close by the East River,
He'd a bit uv a record for social renown,
An' wuz- what ye might call a "high liver."
His shanty wuz built on the top uv a rock,
Where ducks, goats an' ganders did cluster,
'Till a blast of gun powdher would give them a shock,
An' disperse them as fasht as they'd musther.
Old Misther Flannigan bought him a bird,
Loike a cross twixt a him an' a owl;
"Twos knock-kneed an' bandy an' fond uv rock candy,
This queer looking, crooked-faced fowl;
It's beak it wuz keen, an' its feathers wuz green,
Loike the shamrocks that grew in his area;
The neighbors came in, wid a laugh an' a grin,
To See Flannigan's Irish canary.
He invited the neighbors one night to a "spread,"
An' they came loike the street wuz on fire;
Shure they drunk soda wather an' ate ginger-bread
Till you'd think that they'd shurely expire.
Miss Murphy sang German, an' some one cried "rats,"
Howly murther out there wuz a scuttle.
For the guests wint to fightin' loike Kill kenny cats.
An' they lost all their looks in the shuffle.- Chorus.
On a dark, stormy night, wid the moon shinin' bright,
Misther Flannigan turned into bed.
He'd been drinking all day at McSwiggin's cafe,
An' the load had all gone to his head.
His dreams they were wonderful, strange an' not thrue;
He wuz just getting ready to snore.
Whin the bird hollered, fire! turn the hose! you're a liar!
An' old Flannigan fell on the floor.- Chorus.
Twas on St. Patrick's Day, in his uniform gay,
He marched to the tune "Garry Owen,"
While the Clannagael boys made a beautiful noise
Wid the rocks, slones an' clubs they were throw-in'.
In front of the house where old Flannigan lived,
They halted to thry his potheen;
As they entered the door, every blessed man swore.
For the bird shouted, "God save the queen." - Chorus.
For a whole year or more he had trouble galore,
Twinty times he had landed in jail;
He wuz grow in' so thin, be wuz all bone an' skin.
An' his friends would no longer go bail.
To get rid of the pest he had thried every plan,
Not a small bit of good would it do,
'Till he slaughtered the bird, an' the neighbors concurred
That it made a rale fine Irish stew.-Chorus.