Some wan 'll say, 'Look at that
gazabo settin' out there alone. He's too proud f'r to jine in our simple
dimmycratic festivities. Lave us go over an' bate him on th' eye.' An'
they do it. Now if ye have fightin' blood in ye'er veins ye hastily gulp
down yeer dhrink an' hand ye'er assailant wan that does him no kind iv
good, an' th' first thing ye know ye're in th thick iv it an' its scrap,
scrap, scrap till th' undhertaker calls f'r to measure ye. An' 'tis tin
to wan they'se somethin' doin' at th' fun'ral that ye're sorry ye
missed. That's life in America. Tis a gloryous big fight, a rough an'
tumble fight, a Donnybrook fair three thousan' miles wide an' a ruction
in ivry block. Head an' ban's an' feet an' th' pitchers on th' wall. No
holds barred. Fight fair but don't f'rget th' other la-ad may not know
where th' belt line is. No polisman in sight. A man's down with twinty
on top iv him wan minyit. Th' next he's settin' on th' pile usin' a
base-ball bat on th' neighbor next below him. 'Come on, boys, f'r 'tis
growin' late, an' no wan's been kilt yet. Glory be, but this is th'
life!'
"Now, if I'm tired I don't want to fight. A man bats me in th' eye an' I
call f'r th' polis. They isn't a polisman in sight. I say to th' man
that poked me: 'Sir, I fain wud sleep.
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