Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt
But I managed, in no time, to find the lad out:
And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and me,
Such a pair of owld cumrogues—was charmin' to see.
Nor is Murthagh less plased with the evint than I am,
As he just then was wanting a Valley-de-sham;
And, for dressin' a gintleman, one way or t'other,
Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other.
But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the case;
And, in throth, it's the only drawback on my place.
'Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be crost, as you know,
With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago;
That's to say, he turned Protestant—why, I can'tlarn;
But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn.
All I know is, we both were good Catholics, at nurse,
And myself am so still—nayther better not worse.
Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffy,
And lads more contint never yet left, the Liffey,
When Murthagh—or Morthimer, as he's now chrishened,
His name being convarted, at laist, if he isn't—
Lookin' sly at me (faith, 'twas divartin' to see)
"Of coorse, you're a Protestant, Larry," says he.
Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as shly,
"Is't a Protestant?—oh yes, I am, sir," says I;—
And there the chat ended, and divil a more word
Controvarsial between us has since then occurred.
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.