THE IRISH SMUGGLERS.
From Brighton two Paddies walk’d under the cliff
For pebbles and shells to explore,
When, low! a small barrel was dropp’d from the
skiff,
Which floated, at length, to the shore
Says Dermot to Pat we the owner will bilk-
To-night we'll be merry and frisky;
I know it as well as my own mother's milk,
Dear joy, 'tis a barrel of whisky.
Says Pat, I'll soon broach it, O fortunate lot!
(Now Pat you must know, was no joker,)
I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot,
And borrow his kitchen hot pocker.
’Twas said, and 'twas done-the barrel was bor'd
(No Bacchanals ever felt prouder,)
When Paddy found out a small error on board,
The whisky, alas! was gunpowder.
With sudden explosion, he flew o'er the ocean,
And high in air, sported a leg;
Yet instinct prevails when philosophy fails,
So he kept a tight hold of the keg.
But Dermet bawl'd out, with a terrible shout,
I'm not to be chous'd, Mr. Wiseman,
If you do not come down I'll run into the town
And, by St. Patrick, I'll tell the exciseman.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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