But, whisht!--there's his Riverence, shoutin' out "Larry,"
And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry;
So, here, Judy, ends my short bit of a letther,
Which, faix, I'd have made a much bigger and betther.
But divil a one Post-office hole in this town
Fit to swallow a dacent sized billy-dux down.
So good luck to the childer!--tell Molly, I love her;
Kiss Oonagh's sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all over--
Not forgettin' the mark of the red-currant whiskey
She got at the fair when yourself was so frisky.
The heavens be your bed!--I will write, when I can again,
Yours to the world's end,
LARRY O'BRANIGAN.
[1] The Irish peasantry are very fond of giving fine names to their pigs.
I have heard of one instance in which a couple of young pigs were named,
at their birth, Abelard and Eloisa.
LETTER VI.
FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ----.
How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of, Orangeman, Saint, _quondam_ Papist and Tory;--
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of _brass_ was, in old times, compounded.)--
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a _dear_--and _such_ audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As _can't_ but do good to the Protestant cause.
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