And then, O'Mulligan--oh then,
When mounted on our nags again,
You, on your high-flown Rosinante,
Bedizened out, like Show-Gallantee
(Glitter great from substance scanty);--
While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride
Your faithful Sancho, by your side;
Then--talk of tilts and tournaments!
Dam'me, we'll--
* * * * *
'Squire Fudge's clerk presents
To Reverend Sir his compliments;
Is grieved to say an accident
Has just occurred which will prevent
The Squire--tho' now a little better--
From finishing this present letter.
Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll"--
His Honor, full of martial zeal,
Graspt at his crutch, but not being able
To keep his balance or his hold,
Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled,
Like ball and bat, beneath the table.
All's safe--the table, chair and crutch;--
Nothing, thank God, is broken much,
But the Squire's head, which in the fall
Got bumped considerably--that's all.
At this no great alarm we feel,
As the Squire's head can bear a deal.
_Wednesday morning_
Squire much the same--head rather light--
Raved about "Barbers' Wigs" all night.
Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,
Suspects that he meant "barbarous Whigs."
LETTER IX.
FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.
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