LUK at 'ere, ould baby, -- who Shak's the fist av 'im at you? Who's the spalpeen wid the stim Av his poipe a pokin' 'im? Who's the divil grinnin' 'ere In the eyes av yez, me dear? Arrah! darlint, spake and soy Don't yez know yer feyther -- boy? Wheer's the gab yer mither had Whin she blarneyed yer ould dad Wid her tricks and 'ily words Loike the liltin' av the birds? Wheer's the tongue av Michael Flynn, And the capers av the chin He's a-waggin' at yez? -- Hoy? Don't yez know yer feyther -- boy? Arrah! baby, wid the eyes Av the saints in Paradise, And Saint Patrick's own bald pate, Is it yer too howly swate To be changin' words because It's the hod, and not the cross, Ornamints me showlder? -- soy? Don't yez know yer feyther -- boy? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SAGA OF THE SMALL-BREASTED WOMAN by KAREN SWENSON ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON ARIZONA POEMS: 2. MEXICAN QUARTER by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER EPIGRAM: 59. ON SPIES by BEN JONSON FOUR SONNETS: 1 by FRANK DAVIS ASHBURN A PORTRAIT by JOSEPH ASHBY-STERRY MY FORE-ELDERS by WILLIAM BARNES |