And regulates his leases by't;

Meaning their terms should end, no doubt,
Before the world's own lease is out.

He thinks, too, that the whole thing's ended
So much more soon than was intended,
Purely to scourge those men of sin

Who brought th' accurst Reform Bill in. *

However, let's not yet despair;

Though Toryism's eclips'd, at present,
And-like myself, in this old chair—
Sits in a state by no means pleasant;
Feet crippled-hands, in luckless hour,
Disabled of their grasping power;

And all that rampant glee, which revell'd
In this world's sweets, be-dull'd, bedevil'd-
Yet, though condemn'd to frisk no more,

And both in Chair of Penance set,

This appears to have been the opinion also of an eloquent writer in the Morning Watch. "One great object of Christ's second Advent, as the Man and as the King of the Jews, is to punish the Kings who do not acknowledge that their authority is derived from him, and who submit to receive it from that many-headed monster, the mob." No. x. p. 373.

There's something tells me, all's not o'er
With Toryism or Bobby yet;
That though, between us, I allow
We've not a leg to stand on now;
Though curst Reform and colchicum
Have made us both look deuced glum,
Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout,
Again we'll shine triumphant out!

Yes-back again shall come, egad,
Our turn for sport, my reverend lad.
And then, O'Mulligan-oh then,
When mounted on our nags again,
You, on your high-flown Rosinante,
Bedizen'd out, like Show-Gallantee
(Glitter great from substance scanty);—
While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride
Your faithful Sancho, by your side;
Then-talk of tilts and tournaments!
Dam'me, we'll

'Squire Fudge's clerk presents

To Reverend Sir his compliments;

Is griev'd to say an accident

Has just occurr'd which will prevent
The Squire though now a little better—
From finishing this present letter.

Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll
His Honour, full of martial zeal,

Grasp'd at his crutch, but not being able
To keep his balance or his hold,
Tumbled, both self and crutch, and roll'd
Like ball and bat, beneath the table.

All's safe the table, chair, and crutch ;-
Nothing, thank God, is broken much,
But the Squire's head, which, in the fall,
Got bump'd consid'rably-that's all.
At this no great alarm we feel,

As the Squire's head can bear a deal.

Wednesday morning.

Squire much the same-head rather light
Rav'd about "Barbers' Wigs" all night.

Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,

Suspects that he meant "barbarous Whigs."

LETTER IX.

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther,

;

You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther, Could I manage to lave the contints of it out; For sure, if it makes even me onaisy,

Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive you crazy.

Oh, Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him! That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to

him,

Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood,

And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not ev'n the Flood

Was able to wash away clane from the earth)*

As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth,

* "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.

Can no more to a great O, before it, purtend,
Than mine can to wear a great Q at its end.

But that's now all over-last night I gev warnin', And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this mornin'. The thief of the world! - but it's no use balrag

gin'*;

All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin'
Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days,

Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise,
And be forc'd to discind thro' the same dirty ways.
Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last show'd his

phiz,

I'd have known what a quare sort of monsther he is; For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough, That himself and his other wild Irish show'd off; And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their show

man

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."