The Penny Post

POETRY.
IRISH WIT.

A jolly crew, it often happens so,
Met at an inn one day to eat and drink;
How much they ate or drank I do not know,
But 'twas no trifle, we may safely think.
Among the rest a little Paddy came,
To take his glass, and join the festive league;
I do not know that I can tell his name,
But if I don't forget his name was Teague.
Being well seated, it was thus resolv'd,
That each should ask a question from his noddle,
And he who ask'd one which he could not solve,
Should for the public weal bestow his bottle.
Agreed, cries Teague, with heart brim full of glee,
And as there seems to be no great objection,
I'll be for asking foremost, do you see,
And leave the answer to your sage reflection.

You've seen, says he, where squirrels dig their holes:
What is the reason they no dirt dig out?
Why, answers one, that troubles not our souls,
You ask'd the question, now resolve the doubt.
Well, answers Teague, they are a crafty creature,
And don't begin to dig as doth a mole.
For, being of a nature vastly neater,
They first began at t'other end the hole.
Stop, stop, says one with eyes that brightly stare,
And heart in Bacchus's bright sunshine basking,
How came this wonder working squirrel THERE?
In truth, cries Teague, that's of YOUR OWN wise asking.