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5o8 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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You may die when you plaise, Like a poor crippled bear in his den, My fren'. An' the worl' be well rid of Maglone.
Well, still there's a home to be foun', Up town,
You'll get quarters in sanctified groun' You clown.
An' they'll lay down your head,
An' they'll fix up your bed,
With cowld fat, rich clay, soft and brown, Packed down;
An' they'll lave you there, sleepin' so soun'.
An' when they have laid down your head, When dead,
An' a quilt of green scraws on your bed Have spread,
'Twill be comfort, d'ye mind,
To lave no one behind,
To gulp for the spirit that's fled, Or shed
A tear on the sod of Maglone.
Though you ne'er had a Hallowe'en faste, At laste
You'll give the poor worms a taste,
You baste !
Let them work as they will,
Let them feed their sweet fill,
Till they nibble you down in prime haste Nor waste
A morsel of Barney Maglone. |
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