And explain how it was, though it cause slight delay; Still in hopes for your patience my tale may repay. At the back of the wood was a tumble-down dwelling, But when 'twas erected is now long past telling; Its roof might with straw, perchance, once have been thatched, Though now from the rafters 'twas near all detached. But heather and mud were in place substituted, Which seemed with the rest of the mansion well suited. For the windows, with rags stopped to keep out the rain, Though admitting rheumatics, yet owned not a pane; While the door from its hinges had gone to supply A trough for the lady who lived in the sty. Then as to the garden, 'twas quite a disgrace, You never beheld such a wild-looking place. The grass than the flowers had grown somewhat higher, Entangled with bushes of bramble and brier. The trees and the bushes were so much neglected That fruit was ne'er looked for, as 'twas not expected. The hedges, so fine once, had lost all their beauty, And look'd like policemen forgetting their duty; Who would not take even the trouble to keep Away from the garden the cows and the sheep, Which over or under would manage to creep, T' enjoy 'mid the flowers a sweet fragrant sleep. Now the Queen of this mansion was Widow O'Neal, A lady of Irish extraction; Who often procured our good friar a meal, Which gave him supreme satisfaction. For though she a rum 'un might seem to the look, She was without doubt a most excellent cook; And could give fish and game such a delicate taste, That your platter you'd empty in double-quick haste, Nor a scrap, nor a morsel would e'er chance to waste. Now of children this widow had four, As handsome a set as you anywhere saw, Although you the country have travelled right o'er. The eldest, her pet, was a beautiful boy, The pride of his mother, her treasure, her joy; Whose light hair crept over his head like a mat, And boasted the 'nomen of "Clever Young Pat." For he could milk cows, and was once known to try To milk the old sow, but, alas! found her dry, So left her in future at rest in her sty. For birds' nests Pat climbed up the tallest of trees-- The greater the danger the more it would please. A stranger to fear as to sorrow was he, For nothing delighted his heart like a spree; And often, and dearly, his neighbours had rued The spirits of fun which young Patrick pursued. Then in racing he'd beat all competitors hollow, And would leave them behind at a distance to follow. For he had a knack, Without e'er a whack,-- As he stuck tight as wax to the animal's back-- To make it proceed With such rapid speed That you'd doubt if 'twas really a jackass indeed.