_Thursday_.
Last night, having naught more holy to do,
Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew,
About the "Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club,"
Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:--
As the use of more vowels and Consonants
Than a Christian on Sunday _really_ wants,
Is a grievance that ought to be done away,
And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.
_Sunday_.
Sir Andrew's answer!--but, shocking to say,
Being franked unthinkingly yesterday.
To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,
It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!!--
How shocking!--the postman's self cried "shame on't,"
Seeing the immaculate Andrew's name on't!!
What will the Club do?--meet, no doubt.
'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,
And the friends of the Sabbath _must_ speak out.
_Tuesday_.
Saw to-day, at the raffle--and saw it with pain--
That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.
Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces--
She who long has stood by me thro' all sorts of flounces,
And showed by upholding the toilet's sweet rites,
That we girls may be Christians without being frights.
This, I own, much alarms me; for tho' one's religious,
And strict and--all that, there's no need to be hideous;
And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way
Of one's going to heaven, 'tisn't easy to say.
Then, there's Gimp, the poor thing--if her custom we drop,
Pray what's to become of her soul and her shop?
If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given,
She'll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven;
And this nice little "fire-brand, pluckt from the burning,"
May fall in again at the very next turning.
_Wednesday_.
_Mem_.--To write to the India Mission Society;
And send £20--heavy tax upon piety!
Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast,
Making "Company's Christians" perhaps costs the most.
And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown,
Having lived in _our_ faith mostly die in their _own_,[1]
Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say,
When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2]
Think, how horrid, my dear!--so that all's thrown away;
And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice
They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price.
Still 'tis cheering to find that we _do_ save a few--
The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo;
Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum,
While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum.
In this last-mentioned place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em,
For once they turn Christians no barber will shave 'em.[3]
To atone for this rather small Heathen amount,
Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account.
And tho' to catch Papists, one needn't go so far,
Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are;
And _now_, when so great of such converts the lack is,
_One_ Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.
_Friday_.
Last night had a dream so odd and funny,
I cannot resist recording it here.--
Methought that the Genius of Matrimony
Before me stood with a joyous leer,
Leading a husband in each hand,
And both for _me_, which lookt rather queer;--
_One_ I could perfectly understand,
But why there were _two_ wasnt quite so clear.
T'was meant however, I soon could see,
To afford me a _choice_--a most excellent plan;
And--who should this brace of candidates be,
But Messrs. O'Mulligan and Magan:--
A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then,
To dream, at once, of _two_ Irishmen!--
That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders
(For all this past in the realms of the Blest.)
And quite a creature to dazzle beholders;
While even O'Mulligan, feathered and drest
As an elderly cherub, was looking his best.
Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt
As to _which_ of the two I singled out.
But--awful to tell--when, all in dread
Of losing so bright a vision's charms,
I graspt at Magan, his image fled,
Like a mist, away, and I found but the head
Of O'Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms!
The Angel had flown to some nest divine.
And the elderly Cherub alone was mine!
Heigho!--it is certain that foolish Magan
Either can'tor wont see that he _might_ be the man;
And, perhaps, dear--who knows?--if naught better befall
But--O'Mulligan _may_ be the man, after all.