Paddy O'Rafferty, merry and vigorous,
Laugh'd at his lot, tho'  'twas somewhat too rigorous;
Poor was his prize from the wheel of life's lottery,
Turning the wheel in old Dennis Keogh's pottery.
Still he kept turning, and still the clay tapering,
Grew a black pot to hold ink for with paper in,
Sometimes a brown jar to hoard a small pension in,
Sometimes, faith, something not worth a word's mentioning.

Arrah, quoth Paddy, and so goes the round about,
So come those fortunes they make such a sound about,
Some in their save-alls their thousands are gathering,
Some from these ink-pots great families fathering.
So Mister Keogh I no longer will stay with ye,
Luck, whispers Paddy, take heart and away with ye,
Stout are your limbs, a good countenance carrying,
Why should not Paddy catch money by marrying?

Pat took the hint and gambol'd like a mountebank,
Small were his dealings with town or with county bank,
Short his accounts were, and no need of docqueting,
Light was his money-bag, easy in pocketing.
Up with his bundle, his trusty stick shouldering,
Set them, quoth Pat, stay at home and be mouldering;
But a smooth shilling I'd willingly now wager,
Paddy O'Rafferty hooks an old dowager.