Sing a song of sick gents,
Pockets full of rye,
Four and twenty highballs,
We wish that we might die.
Two booze-fiends were ambling homeward at an early hour, after being out
nearly all night.
"Don't your wife miss you on these occasions?" asked one.
"Not often," replied the other; "she throws pretty straight."
"Where's old Four-Fingered Pete?" asked Alkali Ike. "I ain't seen him
around here since I got back."
"Pete?" said the bartender. "Oh, he went up to Hyena Tongue and got
jagged. Went up to a hotel winder, stuck his head in and hollered
'Fire!' and everybody did."
The Irish talent for repartee has an amusing illustration in Lord
Rossmore's recent book "Things I Can Tell." While acting as magistrate
at an Irish village, Lord Rossmore said to an old offender brought
before him: "You here again?" "Yes, your honor." "What's brought you
here?" "Two policemen, your honor." "Come, come, I know that--drunk
again, I suppose?" "Yes, your honor, both of them."
The colonel came down to breakfast New Year's morning with a bandaged
hand.
"Why, colonel, what's the matter?" they asked.
"Confound it all!" the colonel answered, "we had a little party last
night, and one of the younger men got intoxicated and stepped on my
hand."