Classic Poem

I

SINCE pick av them I'm sore denied
 'Twixt play or work, I say,
Though it be Christmas, I decide
 I'll work whilst others play:
I'll whustle, too, wid Christmas pride
 To airn me extry pay.—
It's like the job's more glorified
 That's done a-holiday!

Dan, dip a coal in dad's pipe-bowl;
 Kate, pass me dinner-can:
Och! Mary woman, save yer sowl,
 Ye've kissed a workin'-man—
Ye have, this Christmas mornin',
 Ye've kissed a workin'-man!

II

Whisht, Kate an' Dan!—ten thousan' grates
 There's yon where ne'er a charm
Av childer-faces sanctuates
 The city-homes from harm:
It's cold out there the weather waits
 An' bitter whirls the storm,
But, faith! these arms av little Kate's
 'Ll kape her fayther warm!

Ay, Danny, tight me belt a mite,—
 Kate, aisy wid the can!—
Sure, I'd be comin' home to-night
 A hungry workin'-man—
D'ye moind, this Christmas avenin'—
 A howlin'-hungry man!

III

It's sorry for the boss I be,
 Wid new conthracts to sign
An' hire a sub to oversee
 Whilst he lave off an' dine:
It's sorry for the Company
 That owns the Aarie Line—
What vasht raasponshibility
 They have, compared wid mine!

There, Katy! git me t'other mitt,
 An' fetch me yon from Dan—
(Wid aich one's “Christmas” hid in it!)
 Lave go me dinner-can!—
Ye'll have me docked this mornin'—
This blessed Christmas mornin',—
 A dishgraced workin'-man!