Pat O'Brien to his brother Mike

Arrah, Mike, me honey, Shure a peck ov money I'd give to git back to ould Oireland! It's fryin' I be In this thirsty counthry,— Begorrah, it's simply a Foire land,

What wid naygur fellas, And Cobra capellas, A loively sort ov land this is! As ye pass by a bush. There's a rustle—a rush— And ye're chased by a varmint that hisses!

In the mornin' ye walk Wid yer swateheart, and talk Whin a Sun-sthroke from hivin down-flashes, And the gurl, clane and nate, Lies kilt at yer fate, A hape ov shmoulderin' ashes!

What wid scorp yins, and chayters, Loikewoise man-aters, Bloodsuckers, and foxes that floi, sur, Insicts wid stings, And ants wid long wings, And flois that git into yer oi, sur;

And buzzin' muskayters, And bould Alligayters That grab ye on interin' a river, And cholera sazin' ye, And dysentery tazin' ye, And pains from inlargemint ov liver;—

Ochone! There's a tear in Me oi for ould Erin, That imerald jewil ov natur'! As here I sit thinkin' Ov you, Mike,—and drinkin' Some rale iligant "Kinnahan's" cratur'.