But--scarce less trying in its way--
To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray;
To jokes, which Providence mysterious
Permits on men and things so serious,
Lowering the Church still more each minute,
And--injuring our preferment in it.
Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend,
To find, where'er our footsteps bend,
Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing;
And bear the eternal torturing play
Of that great engine of our day,
Unknown to the Inquisition--quizzing!
Your men of thumb-screws and of racks
Aimed at the _body_ their attack;
But modern torturers, more refined,
Work _their_ machinery on the _mind_.
Had St. Sebastian had the luck
With me to be a godly rover,
Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck
With stings of ridicule all over;
And poor St. Lawrence who was killed
By being on a gridiron grilled,
Had he but shared _my_ errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridiron hot,
A _moral_ roasting would have got.
Nor should I (trying as all this is)
Much heed the suffering or the shame--
As, like an actor, _used_ to hisses,
I long have known no other fame,
But that (as I may own to _you_,
Tho' to the _world_ it would not do,)
No hope appears of fortune's beams
Shining on _any_ of my schemes;
No chance of something more _per ann_,
As supplement to Kellyman;
No prospect that, by fierce abuse
Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce
The rulers of this thinking nation
To rid us of Emancipation:
To forge anew the severed chain,
And bring back Penal Laws again.
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