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Tim O'gallagher Post by :drevis Category :Poems Author :W. M. Mackeracher Date :November 2011 Read :2293

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Tim O'gallagher

My name is Tim O'Gallagher,--there's Oirish in that same;
My parients from the Imerald Oisle beyant the ocean came;
My father came from Donegal, my mother came from Clare;
But oi was born in Pontiac, besoide the Belle Rivière.
Oi spint my choildhood tamin' bears, and fellin' timber trays,
And catchin' salmon tin fate long--and doin' what oi plaze.
Oi got my iddication from the Riverind Father Blake;
He taught me Latin grammar, and he after taught me Grake,
Till oi could rade the classics in a distint sort of way--
'Twas the sadetoime of the harvist that oi'm rapin' ivery day.

My parients thought me monsthrous shmart--of thim 'twas awful koind,
And where oi'd go to college now was what perplixed their moind;
So they axed the Riverind Father Blake what varsity was bist
To make a docthor, bachelor and lawyer and the rist.
Said Father Blake, "If oi must make decision, faith! oi will:
Sure, sind the boy to Munthreal, there's none loike Ould McGill."

So oi came to Munthreal and found McGill one afternoon,
And saw a great excoited crowd all shoutin' out of tune;
And in the cintre thorty min was foightin' jist loike mad,
And two big fellows on the top of one poor little lad.
Oi turned indignant to the crowd, and tould them to their face:
"Ye pack of coward savages, onciviloized and base,
To stand and see two stalwart min abusin' one that way!
Oi loike a gladiatorial show, but loike to see fair play."
So oi jumped at those two bullies and oi caught thim by the shirt,
And oi knocked their hids together and consoigned thim to the dirt.
Oi was removed and they were carried home, but all the same,
Though Ould McGill was two min short, she won that football game.
They thought oi was a tough gussoon, and whin they played agin,
They put me in the scrimmage--we got thorty-foive to tin.

Oi thin wint up to college whin the lictures would begin;
Oi attinded ivery licture--when oi happened to be in;
Got my work up, kipt my note-books in the illigantist shape;
Oi took notes of ivery licture--barrin' whin oi was ashlape.
But, och! oi try to do my bist, for sure it's Father Blake
As says the foinist faculty is Arts, and no mistake;
For there they tache philosophy and English literature,
The mathematics also, and the classic authors, sure.
Oi larned the Gracian poethry, oi larned the Latin prose;
Oi know as much about thim both as my profissor knows:
How Troy, that had for noine long years defoied the Graycian force,
Was "hors de combat" put at last by jist a wooden horse;
How Xerxes wipt because his army soon would pass away,
And Alexander wipt because there were no more to shlay;
How Cato from his toga plucked the Carthaginian fruit;
How Brutus murdered Saysar, and how Saysar called him "Brute."

Oi'd the honor of a mornin' with an influential Med,
And he took me to the room in which they mutilate the dead.
Oi don't objict to crack a skull or spoil a purty face,
But to hack a man who's dead is what oi called extramely base.
But all pursonal convictions, he explained, should be resoigned
For the binifit of scoience and the good of humankoind;
And though oi don't at all admoire their ways o' goin' on,
Oi'll take a course in Medicine, oi will, before oi'm gone.

Oi saw the Scoience workshops, too, and thought whin oi was made,
These little hands were niver mint to larn the blacksmith trade;
And for that illictricity, the thing what gives the shock,
They collared old Promaytheus and chained him to a rock
For a-playin' with the loightnin' and a-raychin to the skoies,
And the vultures gnawed his vittles, and the crows picked out his oyes.
But toimes has changed, and larnin' gives us power--don't you see?--
And whin oi'm done with Arts oi'll take that shplindid faculty;
For, sure, it's from their workshops that the solar system's run;
Besoides, they make the wither, too, and rigilate the sun.

Oi troied exams at Christmas, and oi didn't pass at all;
But oi can have another whack at thim nixt spring and fall.
In toime oi'll pass in iverything, and masther all they taiche;
Oi'll go through ivery faculty, and come out hid in aiche.
And whin oi've conquered all, loike Alexander oi will soigh
There is no more to conquer, and oi'll lay me down and doie.
They'll birry me with honors, and erict in my behalf
A monimint which shall disphlay the followin' epitaph:

"Here loies shwate Tim O'Gallagher,--sure he had wits to shpare,--
His father came from Donegal, his mother came from Clare.
He was a shplindid scholar, for he studied at McGill;
He drank the well of larnin' dhroy (and, faith! he got his fill).
Was niver mortal craythur larned to such a great degree,--

(The end)
W. M. MacKeracher's poem: Tim O'gallagher

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