The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
 | VIII, IX. |
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WO! WO!
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| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
255
WO! WO!
Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it—
That beautiful Light, which is now on its way;
Which, beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,
Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!
That beautiful Light, which is now on its way;
Which, beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,
Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!
Oh F*rnh*m, Saint F*rnh*m, how much do we owe thee!
How form'd to all tastes are thy various employs!
The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee,
The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.
How form'd to all tastes are thy various employs!
The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee,
The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.
Wo, wo to the man, who such doings would smother!—
On, Luther of Cavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand, and with Bible in 'tother,
Like Mungo's tormentor, both “preachee and floggee.”
On, Luther of Cavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!
With whip in one hand, and with Bible in 'tother,
Like Mungo's tormentor, both “preachee and floggee.”
256
Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;
Come, L---rt---n, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popp'd Shakspeare, they say, in the river, one day,
Though 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.
Come, L---rt---n, who, scorning profane erudition,
Popp'd Shakspeare, they say, in the river, one day,
Though 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.
Come, R---den, who doubtest—so mild are thy views—
Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose,
'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.
Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;
Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose,
'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.
What more from her Saints can Hibernia require?
St. Bridget, of yore, like a dutiful daughter,
Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire ,
And Saints keep her, now, in eternal hot water.
St. Bridget, of yore, like a dutiful daughter,
Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire ,
And Saints keep her, now, in eternal hot water.
Wo, wo to the man, who would check their career,
Or stop the Millennium, that's sure to await us,
When, bless'd with an orthodox crop every year,
We shall learn to raise Protestants, fast as potatoes.
Or stop the Millennium, that's sure to await us,
When, bless'd with an orthodox crop every year,
We shall learn to raise Protestants, fast as potatoes.
257
In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know,
Had been trying their talent for many a day;
Till F*rnh*m, when all had been tried, came to show,
Like the German flea-catcher, “anoder goot way.”
Had been trying their talent for many a day;
Till F*rnh*m, when all had been tried, came to show,
Like the German flea-catcher, “anoder goot way.”
And nothing's more simple than F*rnh*m's receipt;—
“Catch your Catholic, first—soak him well in poteen —
“Add salary sauce , and the thing is complete.
“You may serve up your Protestant, smoking and clean.”
“Catch your Catholic, first—soak him well in poteen —
“Add salary sauce , and the thing is complete.
“You may serve up your Protestant, smoking and clean.”
“Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!”
Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
Open'd their bills, and re-echo'd “Wo! wo!”
Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow
Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery
Open'd their bills, and re-echo'd “Wo! wo!”
Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Ch---st---r on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced “Wo! Wo! Wo!” pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |