War Drums (Scharkie)/Mick Hooligan's Ride

by Louis Edward Scharkie

MICK HOOLIGAN'S RIDE.

We were camping one night, at the foot of The Crag,
By the log-fire's crackle and roar,
When a traveller came in with his billy and swag,
And a grin running right round his jaw.

With his hat skewed aside like an Indian's cockade,
And his trousers, to tatters, nigh run,
He looked, in the weather-worn figure he made,
The personification of fun.

We gave him the best of our scanty repast,
Which he polished with many a joke;
And propping his back 'gainst a stump, broad and fast.
He drew forth his pipe for a smoke.

We saw a queer twinkle run over his eye,
As he clapt his lean hands at his side.
Then he asked with an elegant glance to the sky,
"Did you hear uv Mick Hooligan's ride."

"No! well thin I'm the man as I'm tarkin t' you wid;
Und a jolly quaere roide I had.
If the bashte as I rode had'nt shtopt whin he did;
I might have been dead now, be dad.

"Yer know Walter Doodle of Bannego flat.—
Bad luck to his blatherin' tork—
He knew I was jist a bit skewed in the hat,
And as green as a cabbage in Cork.

"One marnin,' he says—like an angel, he did—
The divil, I thought it was true—
"Mick! saddle yer hoss, and I'll give ye a quid
If yer'll cetch me a kangaroo.'

"So we wint to the bush wid a dozen of dogs,
And the kangars skeedaddled away;
And afther, me nag wint, over gulleys and logs,
And me shtickin' toight as a flay.

"The blatherin' thing! I niver ha' thought
As she'd play me a horrible thrick.
I was right on a kangaroo's tail in me shport,
And proddin' him up wid a shtick.

"Whin the bashte as I rode, shnartin' gamely ahead,
Shtumbled on to her knees on the thrack,
And I took a shakdoodle clane over her head,
Right on to the kangaroo's back.

"And away wint the bashte wid the shtep of the wind;
And of coorse yer may guess I was scart.
And I whispered, 'be aisy, me darlint; be koind,
Or I fear as yer'll shkiddle me heart.

"Uv Ireland I thought, and me mother in Cork,
And me swateheart dear Biddy O'Hale,
'Be aisy, me darlint; cool down to a walk,
And let me shlip over yer tail.

"But niver a bit did he reckon to shtay,
But fashter and fashter flew he;
And me yellin', and squaelin', and shoutin' away,
And me own dogs flyin' hard afther me.

'Begorra, I thought, as we came to a hut,
Most loikely the craythur'll shtop—
Jest thinking he'd cripple his back or his neck, but
The divil wint over the top.

"Hoi, hoi, now that's good, I jest thart in me moind,
'Git along wid yer wallopin' tail.
Me blood's in me head, and I think as yer'll foind
I'm as wild as a goat at a rail

"Git along wid yer nonsense,—hoi, hooppoop-ti-la,
And I kicked in his ribs wid me haele.
And he jumped and he bucked like that hoss over thar,
And I think I wint over his taele.

I think as me liver went out of its place,
And me heart to a corner did craepe;
And me shtomick wint shkidderin' up thro' me face,
And Oi musht ha' wint shnorin' ashlaepe.

"Howiver, I woke be Saint Pathrick's koind care,
But I'll niver go roidin' agin,—
Not for all the foine bacon of Dublin or Clare,
Or the bawbees of Brien O'Lynn