1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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