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202 THE IRISH PICKET.
And how 's the pigs and ducks, Biddy ?
It's them I think of shure, That looked so innocent and shwate
Upon the parlor-flure; I 'm shure ye 're aisy with the pig,
That's fat as he can be, And fade him wid the best, because
I 'm towld he looks like me.
Whin I come home again, Biddy,
A sargent tried and thrue, It 's joost a day cent house I '11 build,
And rint it chape to you. We '11 have a parlor, bedroom, hall,
A duck-pond nately done, With kitchen, pig-pen, praty-patch,
And garret — all in one.
But, murther ! there 's a baste, Biddy,
That's crapin' round a tree, And well I know the cratur 's there
To have a shot at me. Now, Misther Rebel, say yere pray'rs,
And howld yer dirty paw, Here goes ! — be jabers, Biddy, dear,
I've broke his ooglyjaw !
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