Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood,

all,

Had I been their showman at Exether Hall

Was able to wash away clane from the earth,')

(Of th' owld bitther breed which they call Prosbe tairin,)

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'.

shown 'em

As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you've thrown 'em

A good frindly sop of the rale Raigin Donem.

But, throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear, For any thing, barrin' our own doings here,

All I know is, I fifty times rather be draggin'

Ould ladies up hili to the ind of my days,

mad,

We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had He says we're all murtherers-div'l a bit less

And be forced to discind thro' the same dirty ways. Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last show'd his phiz,

Give us lessons in murth'ring and wish us success!

When ax'd how he daar'd, by tongue or by pen, To belie, in this way, seven millions of men,

Den !1

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 storie: sed employ the word as above.-See

Lover's most amusing and genuinely Irish work, the “Le gends and Stories of Ireland."

3 Larry evidently means the Regium Donum, a summ com tributed by the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in Ireland.

♦ Correctly, Dens-Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature.

knew.

While on went Murthagh, in iligant style,
Blasphaming us Cath'lics all the while,
As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villians,
All the whole kit of th' 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 ax'd for his proofs again and again,
Div'l an answer he'd give but Docthor Den.
Couldn't he call into coort some livin' men?
"No, thank you"-he'd stick to Docthor Den-
An ould gentleman dead a century or two,
Who all about us, live Cath'lics, knew;
And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry,
Than Docthor Mac Hale or Docthor Murray!

But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon,
Though myself, from bad habits, is makin' it one.
Even you, had you witness'd his grand climac-
therics,

Which actially threw one owld maid in hystericsOr, och had you heerd such a purty remark as his,

That Papists are only "Humanity's carcasses,

hand in,

At laste in our legs show a sthrong understandin'

Howsumdever, detarmined the chaps should pursaivo What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave, “In regard of all that,” says I—there I stopp'd short

Not a word more would come, though I struggled

hard for't.

So, shnapping my fingers at what's call'd the Chair, And the owld Lord (or Lady, I b'lieve) 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 pray'r Murthagh just had read out,

By way of fit finish to job so devout;

That is-afther well damning one-half the com

munity,

To pray God to keep all in peace an' in unity!

ye

"Ris'n from the sepulchre of—inactivity ; "And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity, "Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity! !""— Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light, [flight Would have laugh'd, out and out, at this iligant Of that figure of speech call'd the Blatherumskite. As for me, though a funny thought now and then came to me,

Rago 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 cock'd up my head, div'l a sinse remain'd in it.

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) [him. Bears the big shame of his sarvant's dismisshin'

(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 appetite-both good as new—
Without ev'n 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 sowls, when nard
dhrove.

walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted the carcass of her departed humanity; noxious and noisome, an object of abhorrence and dismay to all who are not

"The character of the Irish people generally is, that they are given to lying and to acts of theft."-Speech of the Rev. Robert Daly.

"But she (Popery) is no longer the tenant of the sepuleAre of inactivity. She has come from the burial-place,

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

We may well ask, after reading this and other such reverend ravings, "Quis dubitat quin omne sit hoc ration's egestas ?"

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 th' Inquisition-quizzing!

Your men of thumb-screws and of racks
Aim'd at the body their attacks;
But modern torturers, more refined,
Work their machinery on the mind.
Had St. Sebastian had the luck

With me to be a godly rover,
Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck

With stings of ridicule all over;

And poor St. Lawrence, who was kill'
By being on a gridir❜n grill'd,
Had he but shared my errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridir'n 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,
Though 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 K-llym-n;

1 "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period, (1619,) 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

No prospect that, by fierce abuse
Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce
The rulers of this thinking nation
To rid us of Emancipation;
To forge anew the sever'd 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—
Though oft, we're told, one outlaw'd brother
Saved cost, by eating up the other.

Finding thus all those schemes and hopes

I built upon my flowers and tropes
All scatter'd, 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 red of war's alarms,
Seek sweet repose in beauty's arms.
The weary Day-God's last retreat is
The breast of silv'ry-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 though 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
Cannot around her sons diffuse ;-
Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,
From wealthy Miss or benefice,
To Mortimer indiff'rent is,
So he can make it only 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 (though it may look henpeck'd)
I can't quite decently object,
Having myself long chos'n to shine
Conspicuous in the alias' 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 instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Mach "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 c mend."-Life of Mallet.

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 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 fill'd with preachers-
The pray'r giv'n 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 pass
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,

(He, who the Lord's force lately led on-
Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,*)
To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chos'n, as "heir of grace,"
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted-
Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan Lyre,"
In our Gazette, last week, we printed,)

Eloped with Pat. Magan, Esquire.
The fugitives were track'd, some time, '
After they'd left the Aunt's abode,
By scraps of paper, scrawl'd with rhyme,
Found strew'd along the Western road ;-
Some of them, ci-devant curl-papers,
Others, half burnt in lighting apers.
This clue, however, to their flight,

After some miles was seen no more;

And, from inquiries made last night,

We find they've reach'd the Irish shore.

Every word of it true, Dick-th' escape from Aunt's thrall

Western road-lyric fragments-curl-papers and all.

My sole stipulation, ere link'd at the shrine,

(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and

mine,)

LETTER XI.

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

Ireland.

DEAR DICK-just arrived at my own humble gîte,
I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,
Just arrived, per express, of our late noble 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,

1 "I think I am acting in unison with the feelings of a Meeting assembled for this solemn object, when I call on the Rev. Doctor Holloway to open it by prayer" Speech of Lord Kenyon.

Nine;

Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.
With a vow never more against prose to transgress.
This she did, like a heroine ;-smack went to bits
The whole produce sublime, of her dear little wits-
Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes, canzonets-
Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,
Some turn'd into papillotes, worthy to rise
And enwreath Berenice's bright locks in the skies!
While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my
pay)

Begg'd, as “lover of po'thry," to read on the way.

Having thus of life's poetry dared to dispose,

How we now, Dick, shall manage to get through its prose,

With such slender materials for style, Heaven knows!

But I'm call'd off abruptly-another Express! What the deuce can it mean I'm alarm'd, I confess.

The Rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county of Armagh !-a most remarkable coincidenceand well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.

P. S.

Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs!

I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days. There-read the good news-and while glad, for my sake,

That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,

Admire also the moral-that he, the sly elf, Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudged himself!

EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED.

With pain the mournful news I write,
Miss Fudge's uncle died last night;
And much to mine and friends' surprise,
By will doth all his wealth devise-
Lands, dwellings-rectories likewise-
To his "beloved grand-niece," Miss Fanny,
Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many
Long years hath waited-not a penny!
Have notified the same to latter,
And wait instructions in the matter.
For self and partners, &c. &c

SONG

SUSAN.

YOUNG Love lived once in an humble shed,

Where roses breathing,

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.

His garden flourish'd,

For young Hope nourish'd

The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die, And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh

She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning,

And raised the latch, where the young god ay; "Oh ho!" said Love-" is it you? good-by;" So he oped the window, and flew away!

To sigh, yet feel no pain,

To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.

This is love, faithless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Through life unchill'd, unmoved,

To love, in wintry age, the same
As first in youth we loved;

To feel that we adore,

Ev'n to such fond excess,

That, though the heart would break, with more,

It could not live with less

This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,

That leads us to thy fairy shrine. There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to Sorrow known; But breath so soft, and drops so clear, That Bliss may claim them for her own Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens wo, And teaches ev'n our tears to keep The tinge of pleasure as they flow.