The Retort Dis-Courteous

Mr. Michael McGlynn, of Dublin town, And Dinny O'Doyle, of Kildare, Through the streets of the city, went up and down, A remarkably guileless pair. Said Michael to Dinny: "Me darlin' bhoy, Since the roise o' the mornin' sun, Niver a dhrop or a boite have Oi, Oi think I could ate a bun."

Said Dinny to Michael: "Av coorse: av coorse! To ate is the woise man's part; Oi have a sinsation loike that mesilf, Oi think Oi could touch a tart." So the kindred souls of this guileless pair, An eating house speedily found, And before them a jar on the table sat, Full of horseradish, freshly ground.

With a tablespoon, Mr. Michael McGlynn Took all that his mouth would hold, Then gasped for breath, while his head turned hot And his spine turned icy cold. The tears on his cheeks came rolling down, But he had no breath to swear, So he simply clutched at the tablecloth, And tore at his red, red hair.

Amazed and surprised, Mr. Dinny O'Doyle Said: "Michael, me darlin' bhoy, Phwat's troublin' yer sowl? Phwat's wrong wid ye now? Phwat's the raison ye've tears in yer oi?"

"Oh, nothin," said Michael; "my grandfather doid Some twenty-foive years ago, Oi chanced to remember the fine owld man, An' Oi couldn't help croiyin', ye know.

"But, Dinny O'Doyle, doant mind it at all; How wake an' how choildish Oi same," Then he passed the horseradish and spoon and all; "Have some of this nice oice crame!" So Dinny dipped into the treacherous jar, And the tears quickly sprang to his eyes, While Michael McGlynn, who had got back his breath, Affected a strange surprise.

"Phy, Dinny, me bhoy, ye're croiyin' yersilf," He said with a chuckle and grin; "Phwat's troublin' yer sowl? Phwat's wrong wid ye now? Is it wapin' ye are for a sin?" "Is it askin' ye are, phwat's makin' me croiy?" Said Dinny, "Oi'll spake as Oi'm bid, Oi'm croiyin' bekase Mr. Michael McGlynn, Didn't doi when his grandfather did."