Where Spuyten Duyvil's waves environ
Manhattan's stern and rock-bound shore
With fume and flame of molten iron
A foundry's chimneys blaze and roar.

Upon a northward promontory
The “House of Blazes” stands in pride—
A tavern famed in local story,
Where grimy furnace-men abide.

Now, one of these, in proud elation,
Despatched a letter o'er the foam.
And bitter grief and consternation
That missive caused in Patrick's home!

“Och! Mother av the Saints in glory!”
The wail arose as Nora read:
“Sure, Pathrick's gone to purgathory!
He niver wrote that he was dead!

“‘Me job is ahl I c'uld desire,’
Sez he, ‘though somewhat warrm I feel
Wid heapin' coal to feed the fire
An' makin' pies av red-hot steel.

“‘The boss is jist the kind that plazes,
And ahl me mates is mighty civil.
I'm dwellin' in the House av Blazes,
And right forninst the Spittin' Divil!’”