But this, by the way - my intention being chiefly In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly, That, seeing how fond you of Tuum1 must be, While Meum's at all times the main point with me, We scarce could do better than form an alliance, To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance: Both mettlesome chargers, both brisk pamphleteers, Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears; And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer By any given cause than I found it the stronger, And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel, When the tone ecclesiastic won't do, try the civil. In short (not to bore you, even jure divino) We've the same cause in common, John all but the rhino; And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may As you 're not used to cash, John, you'd You, John, recollect, being still to em- I'm, dear Jack of Tuam, bark, Yours, as the postman EXETER HARRY. SONG OF OLD PUCK. "And those things do best please me, PUCK Junior, Midsummer Night's Dream. Now in the mud, now in the air, And, so 't is for mischief, reckless where. As to my knowledge, there's no end For, where I have n't it, I pretend to 't; Puck found it handier to commence Beyond all other degrees whatever; Whatever it be, I take my luck, 'Tis all the same to ancient Puck; Whose head 's so full of all sorts of wares, That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears If I had but of law a little smattering, I'd then be perfect1- which is flattering. My skill as a linguist all must know Who met me abroad some months ago; (And heard me abroad exceedingly, too, In the moods and tenses of parlez vous) When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute, I spoke such French to the Institute As puzzled those learned Thebans much, To know if 't was Sanscrit or High Dutch, And might have past with the unobserving As one of the unknown tongues of Irving. As to my talent for ubiquity, There's nothing like it in all antiquity. Like Mungo (my peculiar care) "I'm here, I 'm dere, I'm ebery where." 2 Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud And the hard rubs it got rather took the shine out of it. For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed That even too much of it 's not quite enough.2 Others, wishing to break the poor prodi- Ay! dose them with parsons, 't will cure gy's fall, all their ills; Copy Morison's mode when from pillbox undaunted he Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills, Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity. I verily think 't would be worth England's while To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether 'T would not be as well to give up the green isle To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether. The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant; The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet, And now if King William would make them a present To t' other chaste lady-ye Saints, just imagine it! Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief, Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches; While colonels in black would afford some relief From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wehch's. Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein) The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on! How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin, To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on! 2 En fait d'amour, trop même n'est pas assez. -"Barbier de Séville." 3 Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian. |