As for me, Dick,~'t is whim, 't is folly,
But this young niece absorbs me wholly.
'T is true, the girl's a vile verse-maker,—
Would rhyme all nature, if you'd let her;—
But ev'n her oddities, plague take her,
But make me love her all the better.
Too true it is, she's bitten sadly
With this new rage for rhyming badly,
Which late hath seized all ranks and classes,
Down to that new Estate, "the masses
Till one pursuit all tastes combines,—
One common rail-road o'er Parnassus,
Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves,
Call'd couplets, all creation moves,
And the whole world runs mad in lines.
Add to all this-what's ev'n still worse,
As rhyme itself, though still a curse,
Sounds better to a chinking purse,-
Scarce sixpence hath my charmer got,
While I can muster just a groat;
So that, computing self and Venus,
Tenpence would clear the amount between us.
However, things may yet prove better:
Meantime, what awful length of letter!
And how, while heaping thus with gibes
The Pegasus of modern scribes,
My own small hobby of farrago
Hath beat the pace at which ev'n they go !
FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE JUDY,
DEAR JUDY, I sind you this bit of a letther,
By mail-coach conveyance,—for want of a betther,—
To tell you what luck in this world I have had
Since I left the sweet cabin, at Mullinafad.
Och, Judy, that night!-when the pig which we meant
To dry-nurse in the parlour, to pay off the rent,
Julianna, the craythur,—that name was the death of her, (1)—
Gave us the shlip, and we saw the last breath of her!
And there were the childher, six innocent sowls,
For their nate little play-fellow tuning up howls;
While yourself, my dear Judy (though grievin's a folly),
Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy,—
Cryin', half for the craythur, and half for the money,
“Arrah, why did ye die till we 'd sowl'd you, my honey?"
But God's will be done!-and then, faith, sure enough,
As the pig was desaiced, 't was high time to be off.
So we gother'd up all the poor duds we could catch,
Lock'd the owld cabin-door, put the kay in the thatch,
Then tuk lave of each other's sweet lips in the dark,
And set off, like the Chrishtians turn'd out of the ark;
The six childher with you, my dear Judy, ochone!
And poor I wid myself, left condolin' alone.
(1) The Irish peasantry are very fond of giving fine names to their pigs. I have heard of one instance in which a couple of young pigs were named, at their birth, Abelard and Eloisa.
How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er lands,
And what cruel hard walkin' I 've had on my hands,
Is, at this present writin', too tadious to speak,
So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week :-
Only starved I was, surely, as thin as a lath,
Till I came to an up-and-down place they call Bath,
Where, as luck was, I managed to make a meal's meat,
By dhraggin' owld ladies all day through the street,—
Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the pound starlins),
Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins.
Div'l a boy in all Bath, though I say it, could carry
The grannies up hill half so handy as Larry;
And the higher they lived, like owld crows, in the air,
The more I was wanted to lug them up there.
But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say,
And mine has both handles put on the wrong way.
For, pondherin', one morn, on a drame I'd just had
Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad,
Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther,
That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in the gutther,
Muff, feathers and all!-the descint was most awful,
And,—what was still worse, faith,-I knew 't was unlawful :
For, though, with mere women, no very great evil,
T' upset an owld Countess in Bath is the divil!
So, liftin' the chair, with herself safe upon it
(For nothin' about her was kilt, but her bonnet),
Without even mentionin'" By your lave, ma'am,"
I tuk to my heels and-here, Judy, I am!
What's the name of this town I can't say very well,
But your heart sure will jump when you hear what befell
Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day,
(And a Sunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay)
When his brogues to this city of luck found their way.
Bein' hungry, God help me, and happenin' to stop,
Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's shop,
I saw, in the window, a large printed paper,
And read there a name, och! that made my heart caper,-
Though printed it was in some quare A B C,
That might bother a schoolmasther, let alone me.
By gor, you'd have laugh'd, Judy, could you 've but listen'd, As, doubtin', I cried, "why it is!—no, it is n't:”
But it was, after all-for, by spellin' quite slow,
First I made out "Rev. Mortimer ”—then a great “ 0;" And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin' my skull again, Out it came, nate as imported, " O'Mulligan !”
Up I jump❜d, like a sky-lark, my jew'l, at that name,-
Div'l a doubt on my mind, but it must be the same.
"Masther Murthagh himself," says I, "all the world over!
My own fosther-brother-by jinks, I 'm in clover.
Though there, in the play-bill, he figures so grand,
One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand,
And he'll not let me shtarve in the inemy's land!”
Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt
But I managed, in no time, to find the lad out;
And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and me,—
Such a pair of owld cumrogues-was charmin' to see.
Nor is Murthagh less plased with the evint than I am,
As he just then was wanting a vally-de-sham,
And, for dressin' a gintleman, one way or t' other,
Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other.
Judy, comes the quare part of the case;
And, in throth, it's the only draw-back on my place.
'T was Murthagh's ill luck to be cross'd, as you know,
With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago;
That's to say, he turn'd Protestant,-why, I can't larn;
But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn.
All I know is, we both were good Cath❜lics, at nurse,
And myself am so still,-nayther betther nor worse.
Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffey,
And lads more contint never yet left the Liffey,
When Murthagh,-or Morthimer, as he's now chrishen'd,
His name being converted, at laist, if he is n't,—
Lookin' sly at me (faith, 't was divartin' to see),
"Of coorse, you 're a Protestant, Larry," says he.
Upon which, says myself, wid a wink just as shly,
"Is 't a Protestant ?-oh yes, I am, Sir," says I:-
And there the chat ended, and div'l a more word
Controvarsial between us has since then occurr'd.
What Murthagh could mane, and, in throth, Judy dear,
What I myself meant, does n't seem mighty clear;
But the thruth is, though still for the Owld Light a stickler,
I was just then too shtarved to be over partic❜lar :
And, God knows, between us, a comic❜ler pair
Of twin Protestants could n't be seen any where.
Next Tuesday (as towld in the play-bills I mintion'd,
Address'd" to the loyal and godly-intintion'd,")
His Rivirence, my master, comes forward to preach,—
Myself does n't know whether sarmon or speech,
But it's all one to him he's a dead hand at each;
Like us, Paddys, in gin'ral, whose skill in orations
Quite bothers the blarney of all other nations.
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