FullReads

What Murthagh could mane, and, in troth, Judy dear,
What I myself meant, doesn’tseem mighty clear;
But the truth is, tho’ still for the Owld Light a stickler,
I was just then too shtarved to be over partic’lar:–
And, God knows, between us, a comic’ler pair
Of twin Protestants couldn’t be seen any where.

Next Tuesday (as towld in the play-bills I mintioned,
Addrest to the loyal and godly intintioned,)
His Riverence, my master, comes forward to preach,–
Myself doesn’tknow whether sarmon or speech,
But it’s all one to him, he’s a dead hand at each;
Like us Paddys in gin’ral, whose skill in orations
Quite bothers the blarney of all other nations.

But, whisht!–there’s his Riverence, shoutin’ out “Larry,”
And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry;
So, here, Judy, ends my short bit of a letther,
Which, faix, I’d have made a much bigger and betther.
But divil a one Post-office hole in this town
Fit to swallow a dacent sized billy-dux down.
So good luck to the childer!–tell Molly, I love her;
Kiss Oonagh’s sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all over–
Not forgettin’ the mark of the red-currant whiskey
She got at the fair when yourself was so frisky.
The heavens be your bed!–I will write, when I can again,
Yours to the world’s end,

LARRY O’BRANIGAN.

[1] The Irish peasantry are very fond of giving fine names to their pigs. I have heard of one instance in which a couple of young pigs were named, at their birth, Abelard and Eloisa.

LETTER VI. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH —-.

How I grieve you’re not with us!–pray, come, if you can,
Ere we’re robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of, Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;–
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded.)–
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he’s a dear–and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can’t but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!–he today sketched a view
Of her history and prospect, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse.
As to reasoning–you know, dear, that’s now of no use,
People still will their facts and dry figures produce,
As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were
A thing to be managed “according to Cocker!”
In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector
At paying some thousands a year to a Rector,
In places where Protestants never yet were,)
“Who knows but young Protestants may be born there?”
And granting such accident, think, what a shame,
If they didn’t find Rector and Clerk when they came!
It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay,
These little Church embryos must go astray;
And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost,
Precious souls are meanwhile to the Establishment lost!

In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;–
They’ll still with their figures and facts make a fuss,
And ask “if, while all, choosing each his own road,
Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly Abode,
It is right that seven eighths of the travellers should pay
For one eighth that goes quite a different way?”–
Just as if, foolish people, this wasn’t, in reality,
A proof of the Church’s extreme liberality,
That tho’ hating Popery in other respects,
She to Catholic money in no way objects;
And so liberal her very best Saints, in this sense,
That they even go to heaven at the Catholic’s expense.