"Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, It's plaze, if ye will, an' I'll say me say,-- Supposin' to-day was the winterest day, Wud the weather be changing because ye cried, Or the snow be grass were ye crucified? The best is to make your own summer," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be! "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, It's the songs ye sing, an' the smiles ye wear, That's a-makin' the sunshine everywhere, An' the world of gloom is a world of glee, Wid the bird in the bush, an' the bud in the tree, An' the fruit on the stim of the bough," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be! "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be, Ye can bring the Spring, wid its green an' gold, An' the grass in the grove where the snow lies cold, An' ye'll warm yer back, wid a smiling face, As ye sit at yer heart like an owld fire-place, An' toast the toes o' yer soul," says he, "Whatever the weather may be," says he-- "Whatever the weather may be!" "Now" said the Major, peering eagerly above my shoulder, "go on with the next. To my liking, it is even better than the first. A type of character you'll recognize.--The same 'broth of a boy,' only _Americanized_, don't you know." And I read the scrap entitled-- CHAIRLEY BURKE. It's Chairley Burke's in town, b'ys! He's down til "Jamesy's Place," Wid a bran' new shave upon 'um, an' the fhwhuskers aff his face; He's quit the Section Gang last night, and yez can chalk it down, There's goin' to be the divil's toime, sence Chairley Burke's in town. It's treatin' iv'ry b'y he is, an' poundin' on the bar Till iv'ry man he 's drinkin' wid must shmoke a foine cigar; An' Missus Murphy's little Kate, that's comin' there for beer, Can't pay wan cint the bucketful, the whilst that Chairley's here! He's joompin' oor the tops o' sthools, the both forninst an' back! He'll lave yez pick the blessed flure, an' walk the straightest crack! He's liftin' barrels wid his teeth, and singin' "Garry Owen," Till all the house be strikin' hands, sence Chairley Burke's in town. The Road-Yaird hands comes dhroppin' in, an' niver goin' back; An' there 's two freights upon the switch--the wan on aither track-- An' Mr. Gearry, from The Shops, he's mad enough to swear, An' durst n't spake a word but grin, the whilst that Chairley's there! Oh! Chairley! Chairley! Chairley Burke! ye divil, wid yer ways O' dhrivin' all the throubles aff, these dark an' gloomy days! Ohone! that it's meself, wid all the griefs I have to drown, Must lave me pick to resht a bit, sence Chairley Burke's in town!