O'Hara, J.P.
James Patrick O'Hara the Justice of Peace,
He bossed the P.M. and he bossed the police;
A parent, a deacon, a landlord was he—
A townsman of weight was O’Hara, J.P.
He gave out the prizes, foundation-stones laid,
He shone when the Governor’s visit was paid;
And twice re-elected as Mayor was he—
The flies couldn’t roost on O’Hara, J.P.
Now Sandy M‘Fly, of the Axe-and-the-Saw,
Was charged with a breach of the licensing law—
He sold after hours whilst talking too free
On matters concerning O’Hara, J.P.
And each contradicted the next witness flat,
Concerning back parlours, side-doors, and all that;
‘Twas very conflicting, as all must agree—
‘Ye’d better take care!’ said O’Hara, J.P.
But ‘Baby,’ the barmaid, her evidence gave—
A poor, timid darling who tried to be brave—
‘Now, don’t be afraid—if it’s frightened ye be—
‘Speak out, my good girl,’ said O’Hara, J.P.
Her hair was so golden, her eyes were so blue,
Her face was so fair and her words seemed so true—
So green in the ways of sweet women was he
That she jolted the heart of O’Hara, J P.
He turned to the other grave Justice of Peace,
And whispered, ‘You can’t always trust the police;
‘I’ll visit the premises during the day,
‘And see for myself,’ said O’Hara, Jay Pay.
(
Case postponed
.)
’Twas early next morning, or late the same night—
‘’Twas early next morning’ we think would be right—
And sounds that betokened a breach of the law
Escaped through the cracks of the Axe-and-the-Saw.
And Constable Dogherty, out in the street,
Met Constable Clancy a bit off his beat;
He took him with finger and thumb by the ear,
And led him around to a lane in the rear.
He pointed a blind where strange shadows were seen—
Wild pantomime hinting of revels within—
‘We’ll drop on M‘Fly, if you’ll listen to me,
‘And prove we are right to O’Hara, J. P.’’
But Clancy was up to the lay of the land,
He cautiously shaded his mouth with his hand—
‘Wisht, man! Howld yer whisht! or it’s ruined we’ll be,
‘It’s the justice himself—it’s O’Hara, J.P.’
They hish’d and they whishted, and turned themselves round,
And got themselves off like two cats on wet ground;
Agreeing to be, on their honour as men,
A deaf-dumb-and-blind institution just then.
Inside on a sofa, two barmaids between,
With one on his knee was a gentleman seen;
And any chance eye at the keyhole could see
In less than a wink ’twas O’Hara, J.P.
The first in the chorus of songs that were sung,
The loudest that laughed at the jokes that were sprung,
The guest of the evening, the soul of the spree—
The daddy of all was O’Hara, J.P.
And hard-cases chuckled, and hard-cases said
That Baby and Alice conveyed him to bed—
In subsequent storms it was painful to see
Those hard-cases side with the sinful J.P.
Next day, in the court, when the case came in sight,
O’Hara declared he was satisfied quite;
The case was dismissed—it was destined to be
The final case of O’Hara, J.P.
The law and religion came down on him first—
The Christian was hard but his wife was the worst!
Half ruined and half driven crazy was he—
It made an old man of O’Hara, J. P.
Now, young men who come from the bush, do you hear?
Who know not the power of barmaids and beer—
Don’t see for yourself! from temptation steer free,
Remember the fall of O’Hara, J.P.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Wake Of Tim O'Hara
TO the Wake of O’Hara
Came company;
All St. Patrick’s Alley
Was there to see,
With the friends and kinsmen
Of the family.
On the long deal table lay Tim in white,
And at his pillow the burning light.
Pale as himself, with the tears on her cheek,
The mother receiv’d us, too full to speak;
But she heap’d the fire, and on the board
Set the black bottle with never a word,
While the company gather’d, one and all,
Men and women, big and small:
Not one in the Alley but felt a call
To the Wake of Tim O’Hara.
At the face of O’Hara,
All white with sleep,
Not one of the women
But took a peep,
And the wives new-wedded
Began to weep.
The mothers gather’d round about,
And prais’d the linen and laying out,—
For white as snow was his winding-sheet,
And all was peaceful, and clean, and sweet;
And the old wives, praising the blessed dead,
Were thronging around the old press-bed,
Where O’Hara’s widow, tatter’d and torn,
Held to her bosom the babe newborn,
And star’d all around her, with eyes forlorn,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.
For the heart of O’Hara
Was good as gold,
And the life of O’Hara
Was bright and bold,
And his smile was precious
To young and old!
Gay as a guinea, wet or dry,
With a smiling mouth, and a twinkling eye!
Had ever an answer for chaff and fun;
Would fight like a lion, with any one!
Not a neighbor of any trade
But knew some joke that the boy had made;
Not a neighbor, dull or bright,
But minded something—frolic or fight,
And whisper’d it round the fire that night,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.
“To God be glory
In death and life,
He’s taken O’Hara
From trouble and strife!”
Said one-eyed Biddy,
The apple-wife.
“God bless old Ireland!” said Mistress Hart,
Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart;
“God bless old Ireland till all be done,
She never made wake for a better son!”
And all join’d chorus, and each one said
Something kind of the boy that was dead;
And the bottle went round from lip to lip,
And the weeping widow, for fellowship,
Took the glass of old Biddy and had a sip,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.
Then we drank to O’Hara
With drams to the brim,
While the face of O’Hara
Look’d on so grim,
In the corpse-light shining
Yellow and dim.
The cup of liquor went round again,
And the talk grew louder at every drain;
Louder the tongue of the women grew!
The lips of the boys were loosening too!
The widow her weary eyelids clos’d,
And, soothed by the drop o’ drink, she doz’d;
The mother brighten’d and laugh’d to hear
Of O’Hara’s fight with the grenadier,
And the hearts of all took better cheer,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.
Tho’ the face of O’Hara
Look’d on so wan,
In the chimney-corner
The row began—
Lame Tony was in it,
The oyster-man;
For a dirty low thief from the North came near,
And whistled “Boyne Water” in his ear,
And Tony, with never a word of grace,
Flung out his fist in the blackguard’s face;
And the girls and women scream’d out for fright,
And the men that were drunkest began to fight:
Over the tables and chairs they threw,—
The corpse-light tumbled,—the trouble grew,—
The newborn join’d in the hullabaloo,—
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.
“Be still! be silent!
Ye do a sin!
Shame be his portion
Who dares begin!”
’T was Father O’Connor
Just enter’d in!
All look’d down, and the row was done,
And sham’d and sorry was every one;
But the Priest just smil’d quite easy and free—
“Would ye wake the poor boy from his sleep?” said he:
And he said a prayer, with a shining face,
Till a kind of brightness fill’d the place;
The women lit up the dim corpse-light,
The men were quieter at the sight,
And the peace of the Lord fell on all that night
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Mrs O’Hara’s Bathtub (Fun Poem 39)
Rub-a-dub-dub,
Mrs O’Hara’s bathtub,
a towel gone for a drink,
fell into the tub.
What is the poor lady to dry herself with now?
Oh, dear what can she do,
the robe she thought,
give it a tug,
but it fell into the tub.
Now what was she going to do?
Call for her husband.
A yell, a scream is heard,
as he rushes in like a buffalo herd.
“What is the matter, dear? ” he says,
and then slips up on a bar of soap.
Rub-a -dub-dub,
Mrs O’Hara, towel, robe, and hubby all in the tub.
19 April 1979
poem by David Harris
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Saving Face.
.
i die honourably.
committing hara kiri
erases my disgrace.
only a coward
evades responsibility
for his past actions.
honour demands
I must voluntarily
draw my blade across.
cut from left to right
die slowly in agony
suffer stoically.
.until a good friend
strikes off my head: sets me free
from my misery.
seldom seen today.
but in the past the only way
to correct mistakes.
to die honourably
committing hara kiri.
erases all disgrace
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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There's Always Tomorrow
Top Model, actress and glamour girl
with a lovely smile just like a pearl
walked through Paris quite elegantly
with Scarlett O'Hara propensity.
Admiring glances flew quite freely on
the Avenue of the Champs Elysees.
But her feminine charm soon did wane
and had 'gone with the wind' and the rain.
Droplets fell down her beautiful face
mascara became a frightful disgrace;
those brunette locks were straggly
and wet - not one sweet glance
did she beget. Oh what humility
descended that morn on Scarlet O'Hara
lost and forlorn. But a voice from within
said secretly 'There's always tomorrow'
.......... 'fiddle-de-dee'..........
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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His Mother's Best Friend
O’Brien fancied his mother’s best friend,
Mrs O’Hara, she with the daughter
Who showed her panties to boys for sixpence.
How are you, Micheal? She asked, as she sat
With legs crossed in the kitchen between sips
Of milky sweet tea. I’m fine, he replied,
Studying her legs, trying to pursue
With his greedy eyes, the length of her thighs.
How old are you now? Her soft voice inquired.
Fourteen, he replied. He lifted his sight
To her weighty breasts, picturing his head
Wedged tightly between. Don’t sit their gawping,
Go get to your play, his plump mother said.
He took a last look, trying to capture
Mrs O’ Hara with her legs and breasts
And what lay beneath, for his nightly dreams
In his sweaty bed, be they wet or dry,
And gave her a smile and wink of his eye.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Parent Trap gave my career another boost, starring in family comedies.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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My heritage has been my grounding, and it has brought me peace.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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I dainty little lass I wasn't. I looked twice my age until I turned 10 or 11.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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I am like many of the women I have played onscreen.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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I had always been a tomboy - I still am, at heart.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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When I was young, I was told that I had a sulky, pouty face.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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I don't think I want to win anything I think I want to die unadorned.
quote by Frank O'Hara
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I saw myself as Joan of Arc.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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Henry Fonda gave me a spanking during a scene in Spencer's Mountain.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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I have never lost my faith in God.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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An artist is his own fault.
quote by John O'Hara
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The artificial is always innocent.
quote by Frank O'Hara
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Above all else, deep in my soul, I'm a tough Irishwoman.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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Audiences in London called me the girl with the black cherry eyes.
quote by Maureen O'Hara
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Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you.
quote by Frank O'Hara
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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