Sunday.
Sir Andrew's answer!—but, shocking to say,
Being franked unthinkingly yesterday.
To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,
It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!!—
How shocking!—the postman's self cried "shame on't,"
Seeing the immaculate Andrew's name on't!!
What will the Club do?—meet, no doubt.
'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,
And the friends of the Sabbath must speak out.
Tuesday.
Saw to-day, at the raffle—and saw it with pain—
That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.
Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces—
She who long has stood by me thro' all sorts of flounces,
And showed by upholding the toilet's sweet rites,
That we girls may be Christians without being frights.
This, I own, much alarms me; for tho' one's religious,
And strict and—all that, there's no need to be hideous;
And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way
Of one's going to heaven, 'tisn't easy to say.
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 £20—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.