_Mem_.--To write to the India Mission Society;
And send L20--heavy tax upon piety!
Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast,
Making "Company's Christians" perhaps costs the most.
And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown,
Having lived in _our_ faith mostly die in their _own_,[1]
Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say,
When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2]
Think, how horrid, my dear!--so that all's thrown away;
And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice
They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price.
Still 'tis cheering to find that we _do_ save a few--
The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo;
Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum,
While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum.
In this last-mentioned place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em,
For once they turn Christians no barber will shave 'em.[3]
To atone for this rather small Heathen amount,
Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account.
And tho' to catch Papists, one needn't go so far,
Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are;
And _now_, when so great of such converts the lack is,
_One_ Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.
_Friday_.
Last night had a dream so odd and funny,
I cannot resist recording it here.
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