Bill Manning

Where is he gone, the queer little man,
Who made and mended boots and shoes;
Who hammered the brogues and rushed the can,
And never finished and never began,
While the lads were discussin the news,
Bill Manning.
Where is he? Movrone! One night at nine
He put out the gas and moved away.
His trade was good, for he patched so fine,
You never could tell where it was on mine.
He earned at least two dollars a day!
Poor Manning.
I'm sorry he's gone. His Hole-in-the-Wall
He made a sort of a Patriots Club.
Night after night he'd lecture us all
To give cash or life at our country's call,
And he barely cleared enough for his grub,
Poor Manning.
He worked his days and half of his nights,
But never managed to forge ahead.
The dead-beats knew poor Bill to rights:
They'd only to say they were Parnellites,
And he'd mend their brogues and buy them bread,
Poor Manning.
The begging nuns never called in vain;
Why, he used to tip a Salvation lass!
He once brought a sick nigger out of the rain,
And filled him with beer to ease his pain,
And he always was first at six o' clock mass,
Poor Manning.
No wonder he bought his leather on tick.
If a poor child came with a dime or two,
He d say, and he thought it a splendid trick,
"I've put a Cork sole in your brogue, avic"
As he slipped a dollar inside the shoe,
Poor Manning.
For Patrick's Day, he'd a grand tall hat,
That no one saw for another year.
He talked of Emmet weeks after that,
And was proud that Sarsfield's name was Pat.
He couldn't say Ireland without a cheer,
Poor Manning.
Some say he's gone for a soldier lad;
Some say he's married the Widow Magee;
(I hope it's not true, for his sake, bedad!)
Some say he's dead (that's not half as bad),
But wed or dead I'd give money to see
Bill Manning.