Even you, had you witness'd his grand climactherics, Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics Ɔr, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his, That Papists are only "Humanity's carcasses, “Ris'n” — but, by dad, I'm afeard I can't give it ye

"Ris'n from the sepulchre of-inactivity;

"And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity, "Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity!!

Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light, Would have laugh'd, out and out, at this iligant flight Of that figure of speech call'd the Blatherumskite.

As for me, though 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 cock'd up my head, div'l a sinse remain'd in it.

"But she (Popery) is no longer the tenant of the sepulchre of inactivity. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted the carcass of her departed humanity; noxious and noisome, an object of abhor rence and dismay to all who are not leagued with her in iniquity.'' -Report of the Rev. Gentleman's Speech, June 20, in the Record Newspaper.

We may well ask, after reading this and other such reverend ravings, "Quis dubitat quin omne sit hoc rationis egestas?"

gone:

Though, saited, I could have got beautiful on,
When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all
Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er we've a
hand in,

At laste in our legs show a sthrong understandin'.

Howsumdever, detarmin'd the chaps should pursaive What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave, "In regard of all that," says I-there I stopp'd short

Not a word more would come, though I shtruggled hard for't.

So, shnapping my fingers at what's call'd the Chair, And the owld Lord (or Lady, I b'lieve) that sat

there

"In regard of all that," says I bowldly again

"To owld Nick I pitch Mortimer - and Docthor Den;"

Upon which the whole company cried out " Amen;" And myself was in hopes 't was to what I had said, But, by gor, no such thing - they were not so well bred: [out,

For, 't was all to a pray'r Murthagh just had read By way of fit finish to job so devout;

That is

afther well damning one half the com. munity,

To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity!

This is all I can shtuff in this letther, though plinty Of news, faith, I've got to fill more – if 't was twinty

But I'll add, on the outside, a line, should I need it, (Writin'" Private" upon it, that no one may read it,) To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrishten him)

Bears the big shame of his sarvant's dismisshin' him.

(Private outside.)

Just come from his riv'rence—the job is all done -
By the powers, I've discharg'd him as sure as a gun
And now, Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do
With myself and my appetite — both good as new
Without ev'n a single traneen in my pocket,
Let alone a good, dacent pound-starlin', to stock it—
Is a mysht'ry I lave to the One that's above,
Who takes care of us, dissolute sowls, when hard
dhrove!

LETTER X.

FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV.

THESE few brief lines, my reverend friend,
By a safe, private hand I send

(Fearing lest some low Catholic wag
Should pry into the Letter-bag),
To tell you, far as pen can dare
How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;
Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack,
As Saints were, some few ages back,

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
Aim'd at the body their attacks;
But modern torturers, more refin'd,
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 kill'd
By being on a gridir'n grill'd,
Had he but shar'd my errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridir'n 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,
Though 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 K-llym-n;
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 sever'd chain,
And bring back Penal Laws again.

Ah happy time! when wolves and priests
Alike were hunted, as wild beasts;
And five pounds was the price, per head,

For bagging either, live or dead;

*

Though oft, we're told, one outlaw'd brother

Sav'd cost, by eating up the other.

Finding thus all those schemes and hopes

I built upon my flowers and tropes
All scatter'd, one by one, away,

As flashy and unsound as they,

The question comes what's to be done?
And there's but one course left me

one.

"Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at ths period (1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish priest - being exactly the same sum offered by the Jame legislators for the head of a wolf."

Memoirs of Capt. Rock, book i. chap. 10.