the Irish Question is not settled even yet.
* * * * *
GENIUS AT PLAY.
Shall I ever see again In the human head a brain Like the article that fills That interior of Bill's?
Never a day can pass but he Makes some great discovery; His inventions are so many That you cannot think of any Realm of science, wit or skill That is not enriched by Bill.
To relieve the awful strain Of possessing such a brain William always used to play Eighteen holes each Saturday. But he scarce could see at all, And he often lost his ball, Plus his temper and his pelf, So he made a ball himself, Which, if it should chance to roam Out of sight, played "Home, Sweet Home" On a small euphonium he Had inserted in its tummy.
Next he wrought with cunning hand Round its waist an endless band, An ingenious affair Such as tanks delight to wear; And, inside, a little motor Started every time you smote or Even when you topped your shot; And, once started, it would not Stop, for if it came within Half a furl