Matthews' solemn prediction,
"That boy'll be the death, the death of you all."
LETTER
FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN.
Arrah, where were _you_, Murthagh, that beautiful day?--
Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf,
When that poor craythur, Bobby--as _you_ were away--
Had to make _twice_ as big a Tomfool of _himself_.
Troth, it wasn't at all civil to lave in the lurch
A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:--
Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church,
As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.
If thus in two different directions you pull,
'Faith, they'll swear that yourself and your riverend brother
Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull,
Whose tails were joined _one_ way, while they lookt
_another_![1]
Och blest be he, whosomdever he be,
That helpt soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther!
Not even my own self, tho' I sometimes make free
At such bull-manufacture, could make him a betther.
To be sure, when a lad takes to _forgin_', this way,
'Tis a thrick he's much timpted to carry on gayly;
Till, at last, his "injanious devices,"[2]
Show him up, not at Exether Hall, but the Ould Bailey.
That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd,
And (as if somethin' "odd" in their _names_, too, must be,)
_One_ forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod,
"While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.
Pages:
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258