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Moore, Thomas, 1779-1852

"The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Collected by Himself with Explanatory Notes"


Couldn'the call into coort some _livin'_ men?
"No, thank you"--he'd stick to Docthor Den--
An ould gintleman dead a century or two,
Who all about _us_, live Catholics, knew;
And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry,
Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray!
But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon,
Tho' myself, from bad habits, is _makin'_ it one.
Even _you_, had you witnessed his grand climactherics,
Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics--
Or, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his,
That Papists are only "_Humanity's carcasses_,
"_Risen_"--but, by dad, I'm afeared I can't give it ye--
"_Risen from the sepulchre of--inactivity_;
"_And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity_,
"_Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity_!!"--[5]
Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light,
Would have laught, out and out, at this iligant flight
Of that figure of speech called the Blatherumskite.
As for me, tho' a funny thought now and then came to me,
Rage got the betther at last--and small blame to me,
So, slapping my thigh, "by the Powers of Delf,"
Says I bowldly "I'll make a noration myself."
And with that up I jumps--but, my darlint, the minit
I cockt up my head, divil a sinse remained in it.
Tho', _saited_, I could have got beautiful on,
When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all gone:--
Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er we've a hand in,
At laste in our _legs_ show a sthrong understandin'.


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