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‘Squire Fudge’s clerk presents
To Reverend Sir his compliments;
Is grieved to say an accident
Has just occurred which will prevent
The Squire–tho’ now a little better–
From finishing this present letter.
Just when he’d got to “Dam’me, we’ll”–
His Honor, full of martial zeal,
Graspt at his crutch, but not being able
To keep his balance or his hold,
Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled,
Like ball and bat, beneath the table.

All’s safe–the table, chair and crutch;–
Nothing, thank God, is broken much,
But the Squire’s head, which in the fall
Got bumped considerably–that’s all.
At this no great alarm we feel,
As the Squire’s head can bear a deal.

Wednesday morning

Squire much the same–head rather light–
Raved about “Barbers’ Wigs” all night.

Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,
Suspects that he meant “barbarous Whigs.”

LETTER IX. FROM LARRY O’BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther,
You’ll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about;
And, throth, it’s a letther myself would like betther,
Could I manage to lave the contints of it out;
For sure, if it makes even me onaisy,
Who takes things quiet, ’twill dhrive you crazy.

Oh! Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!
That e’er I should come to’ve been sarvant-man to him,
Or so far demane the O’Branigan blood,
And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not even the Flood
Was able to wash away clane from the earth)[1]
As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday’s birth,
Can no more to a great O, before it, purtend,
Than mine can to wear a great Q at its end.

But that’s now all over–last night I gev warnin,’
And, masth’r as he is, will discharge him this mornin’.
The thief of the world!–but it’s no use balraggin'[2]–
All I know is, I’d fifty times rather be draggin’
Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days,

Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise,
And be forced to discind thro’ the same dirty ways.
Arrah, sure, if I’d heerd where he last showed his phiz,
I’d have known what a quare sort of monsthsr he is;
For, by gor, ’twas at Exether Change, sure enough,
That himself and his other wild Irish showed off;
And it’s pity, so ’tis, that they hadn’t got no man
Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman–
Sayin’, “Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice,
“How shlim and how shleek this black animal’s coat is;
“All by raison, we’re towld, that the natur o’ the baste
“Is to change its coat once in its lifetime, at laste;
“And such objiks, in our counthry, not bein’ common ones,
“Are bought up, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons.
“In regard of its name–why, in throth, I’m consarned
“To differ on this point so much with the Larned,
“Who call it a ‘Morthimer,’ whereas the craythur
“Is plainly a ‘Murthagh,’ by name and by nathur.”

This is how I’d have towld them the righst of it all.
Had I been their showman at Exether Hail–
Not forgettin’ that other great wondher of Airin
(Of the owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin),
The famed Daddy Coke–who, by gor, I’d have shown ’em
As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you’ve thrown ’em
A good frindly sop of the rale Raigin Donem.[3]
But throth, I’ve no laisure just now, Judy dear,
For anything, barrin’ our own doings here,
And the cursin’ and dammin’ and thund’rin like mad,
We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had.
He says we’re all murtherers–divil a bit less–
And that even our priests, when we go to confess,
Give us lessons in murthering and wish us success!