The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 268

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 carca.s.ses_, "_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 c.o.c.kt 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 d.a.m.ning one half the community, To pray G.o.d 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 appet.i.te--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!

[1] "I am of your Patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your antediluvian families--fellows that the Flood could not wash away."--CONGREVE, "_Love for Love_."

[2] To _balrag_ is to abuse--Mr. Lover makes it _ballyrag_, and he is high authority: but if I remember rightly, Curran in his national stories used to employ the word as above.--See Lover's most amusing and genuinely Irish work, the "Legends and Stories of Ireland."

[3] Larry evidently means the _Regium Donum_;--a sum contributed by the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in Ireland.

[4]Correctly, Dens--Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature.

[5] "But she (Popery) is no longer _the tenant of the sepulchre of inactivity_. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted _the carca.s.s of her departed humanity_; noxious and noisome an object of abhorrence and dismay to all who are not _leagued with her in iniquity_."--Report of the Rev.

Gentleman's Speech, June 20, in the Record Newspaper.

LETTER X.

FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ----.

These few brief lines, my reverend friend, By a safe, private hand I send (Fearing lest some low Catholic wag Should pry into the Letter-bag), To tell you, far as pen can dare How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;-- Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack, As Saints were, some few ages back.

But--scarce less trying in its way-- To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray; To jokes, which Providence mysterious Permits on men and things so serious, Lowering the Church still more each minute, And--injuring our preferment in it.

Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend, To find, where'er our footsteps bend, Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing; And bear the eternal torturing play Of that great engine of our day, Unknown to the Inquisition--quizzing!

Your men of thumb-screws and of racks Aimed at the _body_ their attack; But modern torturers, more refined, Work _their_ machinery on the _mind_.

Had St. Sebastian had the luck With me to be a G.o.dly rover, Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck With stings of ridicule all over; And poor St. Lawrence who was killed By being on a gridiron grilled, Had he but shared _my_ errant lot, Instead of grill on gridiron hot, A _moral_ roasting would have got.

Nor should I (trying as all this is) Much heed the suffering or the shame-- As, like an actor, _used_ to hisses, I long have known no other fame, But that (as I may own to _you_, Tho' to the _world_ it would not do,) No hope appears of fortune's beams Shining on _any_ of my schemes; No chance of something more _per ann_, As supplement to Kellyman; No prospect that, by fierce abuse Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce The rulers of this thinking nation To rid us of Emanc.i.p.ation: To forge anew the severed chain, And bring back Penal Laws again.

Ah happy time! when wolves and priests Alike were hunted, as wild beasts; And five pounds was the price, _per_ head, For bagging _either_, live or dead;--[1]

Tho' oft, we're told, _one_ outlawed brother Saved cost, by eating up _the other_, Finding thus all those schemes and hopes I built upon my flowers and tropes All scattered, one by one, away, As flashy and unsound as they, The question comes--what's to be done?

And there's but one course left me--_one_.

Heroes, when tired of war's alarms, Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms.

The weary Day-G.o.d's last retreat is The breast of silvery-footed Thetis; And mine, as mighty Love's my judge, Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge!

Start not, my friend,--the tender scheme, Wild and romantic tho' it seem, Beyond a parson's fondest dream, Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes, So pleasing to a parson's eyes That only _gilding_ which the Muse Can not around _her_ sons diffuse:-- Which, whencesoever flows its bliss, From wealthy Miss or benefice, To Mortimer indifferent is, So he can only make it _his_.

There is but one slight damp I see Upon this scheme's felicity, And that is, the fair heroine's claim That I shall take _her_ family name.

To this (tho' it may look henpeckt), I can?t quite decently object, Having myself long chosen to shine Conspicuous in the _alias_[2] line; So that henceforth, by wife's decree, (For Biddy from this point won?t budge) Your old friend's new address must be The _Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge_-- The "O" being kept, that all may see We're _both_ of ancient family.

Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you, My public life's a calm Euthanasia.

Thus bid I long farewell to all The freaks of Exeter's old Hall-- Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding, And rivalling its bears in breeding.

Farewell, the platform filled with preachers-- The prayer given out, as grace, by speechers, Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:-- Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes, And, scarce less dead, old _Standard's_ columns:-- From each and all I now retire, My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire, To bring up little filial Fudges, To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges-- _Parsons_ I'd add too, if alas!

There yet were hope the Church could pa.s.s The gulf now oped for hers and her, Or long survive what _Exeter_-- Both Hall and Bishop, of that name-- Have done to sink her reverend fame.

Adieu, dear friend--you'll oft hear _from_ me, Now I'm no more a travelling drudge; Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge How well the surname will become me) Yours truly, MORTIMER O'FUDGE.

[1] "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish priest--being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the head of a wolf."--_Memoirs of Captain Rock_, book i., chap. 10.

[2] In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified the meaning of the word "alias" by the instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Malloch. "What _other_ proofs he gave [says Johnson] of disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend."--_Life of Mallet_.

LETTER XI.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ----.

------, IRELAND.

Dear d.i.c.k--just arrived at my own humble_gite_, I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete, Just arrived, _per_ express, of our late n.o.ble feat.

[_Extract from the "County Gazette."_]

This place is getting gay and full again.

Last week was married, "in the Lord,"

The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan, Preacher, in _Irish_, of the Word, He, who the Lord's force lately led on-- (Exeter Hall his _Armagh_-geddon,)[1]

To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place, One of the chosen, as "heir of grace,"

And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge, Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.