As it was but last week that I sint you a letther,
You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about;
And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther,
Could I manage to lave the contints of it out;
For sure, if it makes even _me_ onaisy,
Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive _you_ crazy.
Oh! Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!
That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him,
Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood,
And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not even the Flood
Was able to wash away clane from the earth)[1]
As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth,
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'.
The thief of the world!--but it's no use balraggin'[2]--
All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin'
Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days,
Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise,
And be forced to discind thro' the same dirty ways.
Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last showed his phiz,
I'd have known what a quare sort of monsthsr he is;
For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough,
That himself and his other wild Irish showed off;
And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man
Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman--
Sayin', "Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice,
"How shlim and how shleek this black animal's coat is;
"All by raison, we're towld, that the natur o' the baste
"Is to change its coat _once_ in its lifetime, _at laste_;
"And such objiks, in _our_ counthry, not bein' common ones,
"Are _bought up_, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons.
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