The Bull at the Picnic

The pipes were squealin' an Irish reel

For Ireland's son and daughter,

Lad and lass were steppin' out

With shout and whoop and laughter!

Oh glory be to the drone of the pipes,

The mellow pipes of Erin!

My grandsires they were Irish Kings

And played the pipes with feelin'.

Of hornpipes, reels and jogs and flings

The balmy, perfumed airs was full,

When all at once across the field

There galloped a bellowin' bull!

The women ran, the men clumb trees,

The pipers flew with the pipers,

While I heeded less the bull

Than Saint Patrick heeded the vipers!

Hold fast, says I, I'll tackle the bull!

For me have nor fear, nor pity!

It's a bard of old Ireland now you'll hear

When I sing you bull a ditty!

I eyed the bull and the bull eyed me

While I sang him a strophe of my makin'!

Says he “If I'm mad, it's your songs so bad

That made me made and quakin'!

And then with zest I sang my best

O' songs o'er which I'd cried,

And all the saddest made him the maddest

'Til with a quake he died!

And now, alas, I must say what I would wish,

Oh wish unsaid,

The trees and the lads who heard my lay,

They also were dead!