And, though quite avoidin' all foolish frivɔlity,
Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity,
Where was the play-boy could claim ar equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,

Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
121 IIAifháirt/galetyi HTW 102

All to the laity?
Cannotabe big bachishnyen too?"

pley giaris 191to rich nat Here's health fg you: Father Flynn,

lis 18+

0 Sláide, and stáiyin ang ildinle agin;

Powerfulest prachse and

Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.
AYIT O T Fred Perceval Graves (1846–
aigs smile Cuis

bas 19
LEATHER MOLLOY

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 Torgive 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.” “Oh,” says Paddy, "so late in the evenin', I fear 'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear, For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go, While the road I've to travel 's much longer you know. So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle; To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle; And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet-'Twould disturb me to tellrall my sins, if I'd.

theyit ja And Bivegence has towld us, unless we tell ally 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all. So I'll say in a word I'm no yery

good boy And, therefore, your blessin, sweet, Father Molloxi?

X8Wn Biebe

"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,

You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar-"Oh, murdher!” says Paddy, “don't read any more, For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Riverence's fist will be soon black and blue; Besitles, to be throubled my conscience begins, That your Riverence should have any hand in my sins; So you'd betther suppose I committed them all, For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore, '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 honeYou would think of comparin' that blickguard 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! So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

Samuel Lover (1797-1808)

PADDY O'RAFTHER

a

Paddy, in want of a dinner one day,
Credit all gone, and no money to pay,
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,

Paddy O'Rafther!”

“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? Of your seven small senses you must be bereftYou're the biggest blackguard that I know, right and left,

Paddy O'Rafther.”
“Then what shall I do with the pullet,” says Pat,
"If your riv'rince won't take it? By this and by that
I don't know no more than a dog or a cat

What your riv'rince would have me be afther."
"Why, then," says his rev'rence, "you sin-blinded owl,
Give back to the man that you stole from his fowl:
For if you do not, 't will be worse for your sowl,

Paddy O'Rafther."

Says Paddy, “I asked him to take it—'tis thrue
As this minit I'm talkin', your riv’rince, to you;
But he wouldn't resaive it-so what can I do?!'

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,

Paddy O'Rafther.

“But, for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise To some one in want you would give your supplies Some 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,

The loss of her spouse weeping afther.
"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,

Paddy O'Rafther!”

Samuel Lover (1797–1868]

LARRIE O'DEE

Now the Widow McGee,

And Larrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pig-pens between. The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair, And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn, With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn, And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he:

“Och! Misthress McGee, It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs, Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!" "Indade, sir

, it is!” answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee. "And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin’ two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel purtition betwane.':

“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' iwo rigs?
Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the

cracks
Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez swingin' yer axe;
An'a bobbin' yer head an a-shtompin' yer fate,
Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,
A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm,
When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!''

“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:
For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout;
But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.
Now, Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig
By tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!"
“Me darlint, the piggy says yes,” answered he.
And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.

William W. Fink (18

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.

1

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.