FullReads

When axed how he daared, by tongue or by pen,
To belie, in this way, seven millions of men,
Faith, he said’twas all towld him by Docthor Den![4]
“And who the divil’s he?” was the question that flew
From Chrishtian to Chrishtian–but not a sowl knew.
While on went Murthagh, in iligant style,
Blasphaming us Cath’lics all the while,
As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villains,
All the whole kit of the aforesaid millions;–
Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest,
And the innocent craythur that’s at your breast,
All rogues together, in word and deed,
Owld Den our insthructor and Sin our creed!

When axed for his proofs again and again,
Divil an answer he’d give but Docthor Den.
Couldn’the call into coort some livin’ men?
“No, thank you”–he’d stick to Docthor Den–
An ould gintleman dead a century or two,
Who all about us, live Catholics, knew;
And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry,
Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray!

But, throth, it’s no case to be jokin’ upon,
Tho’ myself, from bad habits, is makin’ it one.
Even you, had you witnessed his grand climactherics,
Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics–
Or, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his,
That Papists are only “Humanity’s carcasses,
“Risen”–but, by dad, I’m afeared I can’t give it ye–
“Risen from the sepulchre of–inactivity;
“And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity,
“Wandrin’ about in all sorts of inikity!!”–[5]
Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light,
Would have laught, out and out, at this iligant flight
Of that figure of speech called the Blatherumskite.
As for me, tho’ a funny thought now and then came to me,
Rage got the betther at last–and small blame to me,
So, slapping my thigh, “by the Powers of Delf,”
Says I bowldly “I’ll make a noration myself.”
And with that up I jumps–but, my darlint, the minit
I cockt up my head, divil a sinse remained in it.
Tho’, saited, I could have got beautiful on,
When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all gone:–
Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate’er we’ve a hand in,
At laste in our legs show a sthrong understandin’.

Howsumdever, detarmined the chaps should pursaive
What I thought of their doin’s, before I tuk lave,
“In regard of all that,” says I–there I stopt short–
Not a word more would come, tho’ I shtruggled hard for’t.
So, shnapping my fingers at what’s called the Chair,
And the owld Lord (or Lady, I believe) that sat there–
“In regard of all that,” says I bowldly again–
“To owld Nick I pitch Mortimer–and Docthor Den”;–
Upon which the whole company cried out “Amen”;
And myself was in hopes ’twas to what I had said,
But, by gor, no such thing–they were not so well bred:
For, ’twas all to a prayer Murthagh just had read out,
By way of fit finish to job so devout:
That is–afther well damning one half the community,
To pray God to keep all in pace an’ in unity!

This is all I can shtuff in this letter, tho’ plinty
Of news, faith, I’ve got to fill more–if ’twas twinty.
But I’ll add, on the outside, a line, should I need it,
(Writin’ “Private” upon it, that no one may read it,)
To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrishten him)
Bears the big shame of his sarvant’s dismisshin’ him.

(Private outside.)

Just come from his riv’rence–the job is all done–
By the powers, I’ve discharged him as sure as a gun!
And now, Judy dear, what on earth I’m to do
With myself and my appetite–both good as new–
Without even a single traneen in my pocket,
Let alone a good, dacent pound–starlin’, to stock it–
Is a mysht’ry I lave to the One that’s above,
Who takes care of us, dissolute sawls, when hard dhrove!