’Twas Saturday in The Dutch Room, and The Fellows all were there;
Some seated at the tables, and eating Fort Pitt fare;
And there were some a-standing, and a-drinking at the bar,
And most of them I’m glad to say were perpendicular.

The orchestra was grinding out a Nineteen-Twenty beat;
You could hear it in the Lobby, you could hear it in the street;
When who but Hube, the Wagner said “You need a different twist;
It will be very different when I’m The Pianist!”

Then up stood The McCaffery and his face was fiery red;
It looked like Irish Whiskey but ’twas Florida, he said,
“When Irish Songs are sung,” he cried, “There’s only one true way;
Now listen closely while I sing” - and started “Galway Bay.”

It made me dream of peat bogs, and steamship tourist rates;
And The Lake Isle of Innisfree, and William Butler Yeats;
And divil take the bald spalpeen who waked me, brought me home -
I mean the guy who loused it up, - Aneurin Bodycombe!

Then up stepped Father Regis, all innocent of guile,
And he wore his collar backwards in the Roman Catholic Style;
But oh! the howlin’ shame of it! I would be very loathe
To think that anyone of us would disrespect the cloth;
I’m sure it was without a doubt The Fellows’ darkest hour
When someone yelled “Where’s Friehof?” I think ’twas Paddy Dauer.

A shortage in the Treasury had caused some slight dispute;
It seemed the shortage had turned up at Toner Institute;
For which The Father thanked us as he stood before the mike,
And then invited Catholic and Protestant alike
To come and sit and dine with him on Thursday, March The Third -
And I for one am going, and I hereby spread the word, -
And if you want to see me, dressed in my other suit
You’ll find me up in Brookline, at Toner Institute.