The Fudges In England. Letter IX. From Larry O'Branigan, To His Wife Judy.

A poem by Thomas Moore

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.
"In regard of its name--why, in throth, I'm consarned
"To differ on this point so much with the Larned,
"Who call it a 'Morthimer,' whereas the craythur
"Is plainly a 'Murthagh,' by name and by nathur."

This is how I'd have towld them the righst of it all.
Had I been their showman at Exether Hail--
Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin
(Of the owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin),
The famed Daddy Coke--who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em
As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you've thrown 'em
A good frindly sop of the rale Raigin Donem.[3]
But throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear,
For anything, barrin' our own doings here,
And the cursin' and dammin' and thund'rin like mad,
We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had.
He says we're all murtherers--divil a bit less--
And that even our priests, when we go to confess,
Give us lessons in murthering and wish us success!

When axed how he daared, by tongue or by pen,
To belie, in this way, seven millions of men,
Faith, he said'twas all towld him by Docthor Den![4]
"And who the divil's he?" was the question that flew
From Chrishtian to Chrishtian--but not a sowl knew.
While on went Murthagh, in iligant style,
Blasphaming us Cath'lics all the while,
As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villains,
All the whole kit of the aforesaid millions;--
Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest,
And the innocent craythur that's at your breast,
All rogues together, in word and deed,
Owld Den our insthructor and Sin our creed!

When axed for his proofs again and again,
Divil an answer he'd give but Docthor Den.
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'.

Howsumdever, detarmined the chaps should pursaive
What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave,
"In regard of all that," says I--there I stopt short--
Not a word more would come, tho' I shtruggled hard for't.
So, shnapping my fingers at what's called the Chair,
And the owld Lord (or Lady, I believe) 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 'twas to what I had said,
But, by gor, no such thing--they were not so well bred:
For, 'twas all to a prayer Murthagh just had read out,
By way of fit finish to job so devout:
That is--afther well damning one half the community,
To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity!

This is all I can shtuff in this letter, tho' plinty
Of news, faith, I've got to fill more--if 'twas 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 discharged 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 even 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 sawls, when hard dhrove!

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