Classic Poem

B ACHELOR'S Hall ! what a quare-lookin' place it is!
—Kape me from sicHall the days of me life!
Sure, but I think what a burnin' disgrace it is,
—Niver at all to be gettin' a wife.

Say the old bachelor, gloomy an' sad enough,
—Placin' his tay-kettle over the fire;
Soon it tips over—Saint Patrick! he's mad enough,
—If he were prisent, to fight with the squire!

Now, like a pig in a mortar-bed wallowin',
—Say the old bachelor kneading his dough;
Troth, if his bread he could ate without swallowin',
—How it would favor his palate, ye know!

He looks for the platter—Grimalkin is scourin' it!
—Sure, at a baste like that, swearin' 's no sin;
His dishcloth is missing; the pigs are devourin' it—
—Thunder and turf! what a pickle he's in!

When his male's over, the table's left sittin' so;
—Dishes, take care of yourselves, if ye can;
Divil a drop of hot water will visit ye,—
—Och, let him alone for a baste of a man!

Pots, dishes, pans, an' such grasy commodities,
—Ashes and praty-skins, kiver the floor;
His cupboard's a storehouse of comical oddities,
—Sich as had niver been neighbors before.

Late in the night, when he goes to bed shiverin',
—Niver a bit is the bed made at all;
He crapes like a terrapin under the kiverin';—
—Bad luck to the pictur of Bachelor's Hall!