O'Grady lived in Shanty row,

      The neighbors often said

      They wished that Tim would move away

      Or that his goat was dead.

      He kept the neighborhood in fear,

      And the children always vexed;

      They couldn't tell jist whin or where

      The goat would pop up next.

      Ould Missis Casey stood wan day

      The dirty clothes to rub

      Upon the washboard, when she dived

      Headforemosht o'er the tub;

      She lit upon her back an' yelled,

      As she was lying flat:

      "Go git your goon an' kill the bashte."

      O'Grady's goat doon that.

      Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash

      Upon the line to dry.

      She wint to take it in at night,

      But stopped to have a cry.

      The sleeves av two red flannel shirts,

      That once were worn by Pat,

      Were chewed off almost to the neck.

      O'Grady's goat doon that.

      They had a party at McCune's,

      An' they wor having foon,

      Whin suddinly there was a crash

      An' ivrybody roon.

      The iseter soup fell on the floor

      An' nearly drowned the cat;

      The stove was knocked to smithereens.

      O'Grady's goat doon that.

      Moike Dyle was coortin' Biddy Shea,

      Both standin' at the gate,

      An' they wor just about to kiss

      Aich oother sly and shwate.

      They coom togither loike two rams.

      An' mashed their noses flat.

      They niver shpake whin they goes by.

      O'Grady's goat doon that.

      O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg

      Av dannymite wan day

      To blow a cistern in his yard

      An' hid the stuff away.

      But suddinly an airthquake coom,

      O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat,

      An' ivrything in sight wint up.

      O'Grady's goat doon that.

      An' there was Dooley's Savhin's Bank,

      That held the byes' sphare cash.

      One day the news came doon the sthreet

      The bank had gone to smash.

      An' ivrybody 'round was dum

      Wid anger and wid fear,

      Fer on the dhoor they red the whords,

      "O'Grady's goat sthruck here."

      The folks in Grady's naborhood

      All live in fear and fright;

      They think it's certain death to go

      Around there after night.

      An' in their shlape they see a ghost

      Upon the air afloat,

      An' wake thimselves by shoutin' out:

      "Luck out for Grady's goat."

      By Nebo's lonely mountain,

      On this side Jordan's wave,

      In a vale in the land of Moab

      There lies a lonely grave,

      And no man knows that sepulchre,

      And no man saw it e'er,

      For the angels of God upturn'd the sod

      And laid the dead man there.

      That was the grandest funeral

      That ever pass'd on earth;

      But no man heard the trampling,

      Or saw the train go forth—

      Noiselessly as the daylight

      Comes back when night is done,

      And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

      Grows into the great sun.

      Noiselessly as the springtime

      Her crown of verdure weaves,

      And all the trees on all the hills

      Open their thousand leaves;

      So without sound of music,

      Or voice of them that wept,

      Silently down from the mountain's crown

      The great procession swept.

      Perchance the bald old eagle

      On gray Beth-peor's height,

      Out of his lonely eyrie

      Look'd on the wondrous sight;

      Perchance the lion, stalking,

      Still shuns that hallow'd spot,

      For beast and bird have seen and heard

      That which man knoweth not.

      But when the warrior dieth,

      His comrades in the war,

      With arms reversed and muffled drum,

      Follow his funeral car;

      They show the banners taken,

      They tell his battles won,

      And after him lead his masterless steed,

      While peals the minute gun.

      Amid the noblest of the land

      We lay the sage to rest,

      And give the bard an honor'd place,

      With costly marble drest,

      In the great minster transept

      Where lights like glories fall,

      And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings

      Along the emblazon'd wall.

      This was the truest warrior

      That ever buckled sword,

      This was the most gifted poet

      That ever breathed a word;

      And never earth's philosopher

      Traced with his golden pen,

      On the deathless page, truths half so sage

      As he wrote down for men.

      And had he not high honor,—

      The hillside for a pall,

      To lie in state while angels wait

      With stars for tapers tall,

      And