Wo! Wo!

A poem by Thomas Moore

[1]


Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it--
That beautiful Light which is now on its way;
Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,
Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!
How formed to all tastes are thy various employs.
The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee;
The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!--
On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other,
Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day,
Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest--so mild are thy views--
Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose
'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require?
St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter
Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2]
And Saints keep her now in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career,
Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us,
When blest with an orthodox crop every year,
We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know,
Had been trying their talent for many a day;
Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show,
Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;--
"Catch your Catholic, first--soak him well in poteen,
"Add salary sauce,[3] and the thing is complete.
"You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!"
Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4]
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

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