He sings him the chune of "The Old Phwiskey Jug,"
An' juggles him up on his knee
As light as the mist from ould Erin's green turf
That floats from the bog to the sea.
Then the gossoon lies back like a king on his couch,
An' the shadows across his eyes creep;
I'll lay you a bet, it's a beautiful sight,
When McGue puts the baby to sleep.
Then the ould man says "Phwist!" as the first darling snore
He hears from the swate, sleeping child;
An' he steps to the cradle, as aisy as mud,
An' the drop of a pin makes him wild.
"The Virgin take care of that baby!" his prayer
Comes out of the heart low and deep;
It would kill the ould man if the kid should refuse
John McGue for to put him to sleep.
JEM'S LAST RIDE.
High o'er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night,
And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right,
Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape,
While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape.
Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound
Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground;
And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim,
Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem.
'Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero's gauge.
From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage;
And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his side,
I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day's weary ride.
