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And, though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,
Where was the play-boy could claim ar equality
Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
All to the laity?
Cannot brychty bashmen too?"
Here's health & Father O'Flynn,
Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.
Perceval Graves [1846
OR, THE CONFESSION
PADDY MCCABE was dying one day,
And Father Molloy he came to confess him;
Paddy prayed hard he would make no delay,
But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him
"First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy,
"For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy."
"Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy, "The manifold sins that humanity's heir to;
And when you hear those that your conscience annoy,
And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety,
Your Riverence's fist will be soon black and blue;
For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small,
'Tis your Riverence knows how to absolve them, astore; So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boy
And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."
"Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly;
And promise me also that, if you should live,
You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly."
"I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, "Except that big vagabone Micky Malone;
And him I will murdher if ever I can-"
"Tut, tut!" says the priest, "you're a very bad man; For without your forgiveness, and also repentance, You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence." "Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard caseWith your Riverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace;
But with Heaven and your Riverence I wondher-Och hone— You would think of comparin' that blackguard MaloneBut since I'm hard pressed and that I must forgive,
I forgive-if I die-but as sure as I live
That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!-
Samuel Lover [1797-1868)
PADDY, in want of a dinner one day,
Stole from a priest a fat pullet, they say,
And went to confession just after;
"Your riv'rince," says Paddy, "I stole this fat hen." "What, what!" says the priest, "at your ould thricks again? Faith, you'd rather be stalin' than sayin' amen,
"Sure, you wouldn't be angry," says Pat, "if you knew That the best of intintions I had in my view
For I stole it to make it a prisint to you,
And you can absolve me afther."
"Do you think," says the priest, "I'd partake of your theft?
"Then what shall I do with the pullet," says Pat,
What your riv'rince would have me be afther."
Says Paddy, "I asked him to take it-'tis thrue
Says Paddy, nigh choken with laughter. "By my throth," says the priest, "but the case is absthruse; If he won't take his hen, why the man is a goose:
'Tis not the first time my advice was no use,
"But, for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise To some one in want you would give your suppliesSome widow, or orphan, with tears in their eyes;
And then you may come to me afther." So Paddy went off to the brisk Widow Hoy, And the pullet between them was eaten with joy, And, says she, 'Pon my word, you're the cleverest boy, Paddy O'Rafther!"
Then Paddy went back to the priest the next day,
And told him the fowl he had given away
To a poor lonely widow, in want and dismay,
"Well, now," says the priest, "I'll absolve you, my lad, For repentantly making the best of the bad,
In feeding the hungry and cheering the sad,
Samuel Lover [1797-1868]
Now the Widow McGee,
And Larrie O'Dee,
Had two little cottages out on the green,
One morning said he:
"Och! Misthress McGee,
It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs,
"Schwate Widow McGee,"
Answered Larrie O'Dee,
"If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs,
Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs?
Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the
Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez swingin' yer axe;
An' a bobbin' yer head an a-shtompin' yer fate,
"Now, piggy," says she,
"Larrie's courtin' o' me,
Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you;
So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do:
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY
THERE was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man;
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman,
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.
His face was no ways beautiful,
For with small-pox 'twas scarred across;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.