FullReads

Then, there’s Gimp, the poor thing–if her custom we drop,
Pray what’s to become of her soul and her shop?
If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given,
She’ll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven;
And this nice little “fire-brand, pluckt from the burning,”
May fall in again at the very next turning.

Wednesday.

Mem.–To write to the India Mission Society;
And send L20–heavy tax upon piety!

Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast,
Making “Company’s Christians” perhaps costs the most.
And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown,
Having lived in our faith mostly die in their own,[1]
Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say,
When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2]
Think, how horrid, my dear!–so that all’s thrown away;
And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice
They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price.

Still ’tis cheering to find that we do save a few–
The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo;
Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum,
While but one and a half’s left at Cooroopadum.
In this last-mentioned place ’tis the barbers enslave ’em,
For once they turn Christians no barber will shave ’em.[3]

To atone for this rather small Heathen amount,
Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account.
And tho’ to catch Papists, one needn’t go so far,
Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are;
And now, when so great of such converts the lack is,
One Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.

Friday.

Last night had a dream so odd and funny,
I cannot resist recording it here.–
Methought that the Genius of Matrimony
Before me stood with a joyous leer,
Leading a husband in each hand,
And both for me, which lookt rather queer;–
One I could perfectly understand,
But why there were two wasn’t quite so clear.
T’was meant however, I soon could see,
To afford me a choice–a most excellent plan;
And–who should this brace of candidates be,
But Messrs. O’Mulligan and Magan:–
A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then,
To dream, at once, of two Irishmen!–
That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders
(For all this past in the realms of the Blest.)
And quite a creature to dazzle beholders;
While even O’Mulligan, feathered and drest
As an elderly cherub, was looking his best.
Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt
As to which of the two I singled out.
But–awful to tell–when, all in dread
Of losing so bright a vision’s charms,
I graspt at Magan, his image fled,
Like a mist, away, and I found but the head
Of O’Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms!
The Angel had flown to some nest divine.
And the elderly Cherub alone was mine!

Heigho!–it is certain that foolish Magan
Either can’tor won’t see that he might be the man;
And, perhaps, dear–who knows?–if naught better befall
But–O’Mulligan may be the man, after all.

N. B.

Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout,
For the special discussion of matters devout;–
Like those soirees, at Powerscourt, so justly renowned,
For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round;
Those theology-routs which the pious Lord Roden,
That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in;
Where, blessed down-pouring[5]from tea until nine,
The subjects lay all in the Prophecy line;–
Then, supper–and then, if for topics hard driven,
From thence until bed-time to Satan was given;
While Roden, deep read in each topic and tome,
On all subjects (especially the last) was at home.