Michael P. McCaffey was a power in the land.
   Sly humor lurked behind his eye and in his cheery grin;
But strength was in the rugged face, his firmly gripping hand,
   And the fierce, while whisker-frill that grew beneath his chin --
The frill that stretched from ear to ear and matched the stubborn way
Of Michael P. McCaffey, Isquire, Jay Pay.

He owned the richest wheat lands you'd ever wish to see,
   He owned the grandest horse teams and waggons in the land,
He owned the finest farm-house, where hospitality
   Was lavish in that country of the free and open hand.
Nor friend nor stranger sought his door and hungry went away
From Michael P. McCaffey, Isquire, Jay Pay.

He quarrelled in the Council on every Council Day;
   He quarrelled with the trooper and, once, outfaced the priest!
"I'll not abate wan word of ut!  Give heed to what I say!"
   For Michael P. aroused in wrath was like a raging beast.
"But, ach!  The gintle smile of him!  Dear knows he had a way,"
Had Councillor McCaffey, Isquire, Jay Pay.

They say he lived to droop and fail and go the way of men.
   And bow his stiff neck meekly to the great Eternal Plan;
Yet I would fain remember him just as I knew him then;
   A fierce, kind, stubborn old, vigorous old man,
Stumping down the glaring street upon a summer day,
With his frill of snowy whisker -- Mick McCaffey, Jay Pay.

"Den"
Herald, 11 March 1935, p6