"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 pray'r Murthagh just had read

out,

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 '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 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.

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

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