Poetry Archives

Old Deutchland’s the country for sauerkraut and beer,
Old England’s the land of roast beef and good cheer,
Auld Scotland’s the mother of gristle and grit,
But Ireland, my boy, is the mother of wit.
Once Pat was indicted for stealing a pig,
And brought into court to the man in the wig.
The indictment was long and so lumbered with Latin
That Pat hardly knew what a pickle was Pat in;
But at last it was read to the end, and the wig
Said: “Pat, are you guilty of stealing the pig?”
Pat looked very wise, though a trifle forlorn,
And he asked of milord that the witness be sworn.
“Bless yer sowl,” stammered Pat, “an’ the day ye was born!
Faith how in the divil d’ye think Oi can tell
Till Oi hear the ividince?”
                           Pat reckoned well;
For the witness was sworn and the facts he revealed—
How Pat stole the piggy and how the pig squealed,
Whose piggy the pig was and what he was worth,
And the slits in his ears and his tail and—so forth;
But he never once said, ‘in the county of Meath,’[CX]
So Pat he escaped by the skin of his teeth.

[CX] In criminal cases it is necessary to prove that the crime was
committed in the county where the venue is laid.