The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 265

But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say, And mine has _both_ handles put on the wrong way.

For, pondherin', one morn, on a drame I'd just had Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad, Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther, That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in the gutther, m.u.f.f, feathers and all!--the descint was most awful, And--what was still worse, faith--I knew'twas unlawful: For, tho', with mere _women_, no very great evil, 'Tupset an owld _Countess_ in Bath is the divil!

So, liftin' the chair, with herself safe upon it, (for nothin' about her--was _kilt_, but her bonnet,) Without even mentionin' "By your lave, ma'am,"

I tuk to my heels and--here, Judy, I am!

What's the name of this town I can't say very well, But your heart sure will jump when you hear what befell Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day, (And a Sunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,) When his brogues to this city of luck found their way.

Bein' hungry, G.o.d help me and happenin' to stop, Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's shop, I saw, in the window, a large printed paper.

And read there a name, och! that made my heart caper-- Though printed it was in some quare ABC, That might bother a schoolmaster, let alone _me_.

By gor, you'd have laughed Judy, could you've but listened, As, doubtin', I cried, "why is it!--no, it _isn't_:"

But it _was_, after all--for, by spellin' quite slow, First I made out "Rev. Mortimer"--then a great "O"; And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin' my skull again, Out it came, nate as imported, "O'Mulligan!"

Up I jumpt like a sky-lark, my jewel, at that name,-- Divil a doubt on my mind, but it _must_ be the same "Master Murthagh, himself," says I, "all the world over!

My own fosther-brother--by jinks, I'm in clover.

Tho' _there_, in the play-bill, he figures so grand, One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand, And he'll not let me shtarve in the inemy's land!"

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 c.u.mrogues--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, G.o.d 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 G.o.dly 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 _bra.s.s_ was, in old times, compounded.)-- The sly and the saintly, the worldly and G.o.dly, 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.

Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view Of her history and prospect, to _me_ at least new, And which (if it _takes_ as it ought) must arouse The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse.

As to _reasoning_--you know, dear, that's now of no use, People still will their _facts_ and dry _figures_ produce, As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were A thing to be managed "according to c.o.c.ker!"

In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector At paying some thousands a year to a Rector, In places where Protestants _never yet were_,) "Who knows but young Protestants _may_ be born there?"

And granting such accident, think, what a shame, If they didn?t find Rector and Clerk when they came!

It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay, These little Church embryos _must_ go astray; And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost, Precious souls are meanwhile to the Establishment lost!

In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;-- They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss, And ask "if, while all, choosing each his own road, Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly Abode, It is right that _seven_ eighths of the travellers should pay For _one_ eighth that goes quite a different way?"-- Just as if, foolish people, this wasn't, in reality, A proof of the Church's extreme liberality, That tho' hating Popery in _other_ respects, She to Catholic _money_ in no way objects; And so liberal her very best Saints, in this sense, That they even go to heaven at the Catholic's expense.

But tho' clear to _our_ minds all these arguments be, People cannot or _will_ not their cogency see; And I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church Stand on reasoning alone, she'd be left in the lurch.

It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere, That I heard this nice Reverend O'_something_ we've here, Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading, A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding, In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought, All that Irving himself in his glory e'er taught.

Looking thro' the whole history, present and past, Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last; Considering how strange its original birth-- Such a thing having _never_ before been on earth-- How opposed to the instinct, the law and the force Of nature and reason has been its whole course; Thro' centuries encountering repugnance, resistance, Scorn, hate, execration--yet still in existence!

Considering all this, the conclusion he draws Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws-- That Reason, dumb-foundered, gives up the dispute, And before the portentous anomaly stands mute; That in short 'tis a Miracle! and, _once_ begun, And transmitted thro' ages, from father to son, For the honor of miracles, _ought to go on_.

Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound, Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound.

For observe the more low all her merits they place, The more they make out the miraculous case, And the more all good Christians must deem it profane To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign.

As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond doubt That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out, As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear, As anything else has been _ever_ found there:-- While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals, And the ease with which vial on vial he strings, Shows him quite a _first-rate_ at all these sort of things.

So much for theology:--as for the affairs Of this temporal world--the light drawing-room cares And gay toils of the toilet, which, G.o.d knows, I seek, From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek, And to be, as the Apostle, was, "weak with the weak,"

Thou wilt find quite enough (till I'm somewhat less busy) In the extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

_Thursday_.

Last night, having naught more holy to do, Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew, About the "Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club,"

Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:-- As the use of more vowels and Consonants Than a Christian on Sunday _really_ wants, Is a grievance that ought to be done away, And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.

_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 Cla.s.s 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs 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.