On The Eighth Day Of March It Was, Some People Say, That Saint Pathrick At Midnight He First Saw The Day; While Others Declare 'Twas The Ninth He Was Born, And 'Twas All A Mistake Between Midnight And Morn; For Mistakes Will Occur In A Hurry And Shock, And Some Blam'D The Baby - And Some Blam'D The Clock - Till With All Their Cross-Questions Sure No One Could Know, If The Child Was Too Fast - Or The Clock Was Too Slow. Now The First Faction Fight In Ould Ireland, They Say, Was All On Account Of Saint Pathrick'S Birthday, Some Fought For The Eighth - For The Ninth More Would Die. And Who Wouldn't See Right, Sure They Blacken'D His Eye! At Last, Both The Factions So Positive Grew, That Each Kept A Birthday, So Pat Then Had Two, Till Father Mulcahy, Who Showed Them Their Sins, Said, "No One Could Have Two Birthdays But A Twins." Says He, "Boys, Don't Be Fightin' For Eight Or For Nine, Don't Be Always Dividin' - But Sometimes Combine; Combine Eight With Nine, And Seventeen Is The Mark, So Let That Be His Birthday." - "Amen," Says The Clerk. "If He Wasn't A Twins, Sure Our Hist'Ry Will Show - That, At Least, He's Worth Any Two Saints That We Know!" Then They All Got Blind Dhrunk - Which Complated Their Bliss, And We Keep Up The Practice From That Day To This. Samuel Lover.