Letter From Larry O'Branigan To The Rev. Murthagh O'Mulligan.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Arrah, where were you, Murthagh, that beautiful day?--
Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf,
When that poor craythur, Bobby--as you were away--
Had to make twice as big a Tomfool of himself.

Troth, it wasn’t at all civil to lave in the lurch
A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:--
Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church,
As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.

If thus in two different directions you pull,
'Faith, they'll swear that yourself and your riverend brother
Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull,
Whose tails were joined one way, while they lookt

Och blest be he, whosomdever he be,
That helpt soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther!
Not even my own self, tho' I sometimes make free
At such bull-manufacture, could make him a betther.

To be sure, when a lad takes to forgin', this way,
'Tis a thrick he's much timpted to carry on gayly;
Till, at last, his "injanious devices,"[2]
Show him up, not at Exether Hall, but the Ould Bailey.

That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd,
And (as if somethin' "odd" in their names, too, must be,)
One forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod,
"While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.[3]

But, no matther who did it all blessin's betide him,
For dishin' up Bob, in a manner so nate;
And there wanted but you, Murthagh 'vourneen, beside him,
To make the whole grand dish of bull-calf complate.

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