Classic Poem

On the bridge of Dereen,
Away up by Killarney,
You'll be sure to be seein'
Poor Batsy O'Kearney
A big stick in the air
So lazily swingin',
Smokin' and jokin'
And carelessly singin'
Some snatch of a song,
Out over the river,
As it rushes along
For iver and iver
To the Bay of Kenmare.
Six feet six
Is the fix
Of his height,
Honour bright!
Forty-eight the diminsion
Round his ribs by my inchin';
It's murther to say
Such a man's thrun away.

He's the last to delay
And the earliest comer
On the bridge by the bay,
Winter and summer.
Do you question why so?
What keeps him for iver
Smokin' and jokin'
And out on the river
That rushes below,
Serenadin' so gaily?
'Twas the cowardly blow
Of a tinker's shillelagh
Left the proper man so.

But you're wonderin', why,
How at all it could happen
Such a broth of a boy
Got the scandalous rappin'.
'Twas September fair day,
And the Adragole faction
Wid Dereen for the green
And the bridge were in action;
And from off the bridge road,
Wid his cudgel so clever,
Bat was leatherin' a load
Of Cork men for ever,
Just as if it was play.

When up from beneath,
Still further and further,
Houldin' tight in his teeth
A stick that was murther,
That black tinker stole,
By the ivy boughs clingin',
On the edge of the bridge
The knees softly swingin';
And, unknownst at his back,
From the wall of the river
Fetched O'Kearney a crack,
That left him for iver
Wid a poor, puzzled poll.

Did he fall? Not at all!
But he picked off that tinker

Like a snail from the wall;
And before you could think, or
Repate your own name,
Cot the stick from the ruffi'n,
Knocked him dead on the head,
And widout shroud or coffin
Tossed him into the tide.
And his black corpse for ever
From Ireland should glide,
For her good soil could never
Cover up such a shame.

Thin backward agin,
Wid a bitter screech flyin',
On the Adragole men,
Just as they were cryin',
" The bridge is our own. "
In their thick, like a flail, he
Swung, till it sung,
The tinker's shillelagh;
So that staggerin' down,
Broken and batthered,
Out of the town
All Adragole scatthered
Before Batsy alone.

Ever since which,
Poor Bat's only iday
Is to sit on the bridge,
Wet day or dry day,
Wid that stick in his fist;
And no tinkerin' fellas
Dare to come there
Wid their pots and their bellas,
And all Adragole
Takes the ford down the river,
For fear that the fool
On the bridge-end for iver
Should give them a twist.

So he's come by a name,
The English of which, sir,
Translatin' that same,
Is " Bat of the Bridge, " sir.
But the hour's growin' late;
Good night, and safe journey!
It's afloat in your boat
You should be, Doctor Corney.
By myself, now, bad scran
To the tribe of the tinkers,
For they've left a good man,
Like a horse widout blinkers,
All bothered and bate.

Six feet six
Is the height
Of poor Batsy to-night,
Forty-eight the diminsion
Round his ribs by my inchin';
It's murther, I say,
Such a man's thrun away.