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And, though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,
Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
Al to the laity?
Valby 'alimtish 19sto 2:12
Powerfulest prsachst, and
Tinderest (eacher, and
OR, THE CONFESSION
And Father Molloy he came to confess him;
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.” “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 tell all my sins, if I'd thry it isa And Biverence haş.towld us, unless you bell'ally 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all. So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy.i bo') And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father, Mollox;"
"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; Besides, 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 boyAnd, 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 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!So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."
· Samuel Lover (1797-1868)
PADDY, in want of a dinner one day,
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
And you can absolve me afther."
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 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,
Then Paddy went back to the priest the next day,
The loss of her spouse weeping afther.
Samuel Lover (1797–1868)
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 ()'Dee,
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,
William W. Fink (18
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY
THERE was a lady lived at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man;
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring
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.