Long life to ye, Right Rivirince Bacher!
I'm towld yer the broth ov good nature,
An ye'll not think it quare,
Whin ye'll go to the Fair,
If this bit of a letther should rache yer.
Och! I thought I'd just like ye to know
That "the schpool ov mi hart" is quite low,
Wid mi havin to shtay
Beyant Brooklin away,
An git niver a peep at the show.
Sure, I'll not be meself till its throo,
For I dhrame ov it night and day too,
An yer Honor'll not frown
If I jist rite it down—
Troth the last dhrame I had wuz ov you!
I thought I wuz in at the Fair,
Along wid the t'rong that was thare,
An jist smilin contint,
Wid mi money all spint,
Whin I felt a grate shout thro the air.
And I turned me to see what would come,
Expictin the sound ov a dhrum.
Arrah, thin! By the powers,
Came the prastes in sich showers,
I thrimbled, and shtud thare quite dumb.
Thare wuz wun, a fine schprig ov a man,
An he towld ov an excellint plan;
Faith, he schpoke it out loud
To a bit ov the crowd:
I'll repate it, as well as I can.
His Howliness ordhered the shoes
That was worn by the Arch-Bishop Hughes,
(May his soul rest in peace,
And his throubles all cease,
Whin he gits from Saint Pether this news!)
To be put on yer Rivirince's feet,
An whiniver ye'd walk in the shtreet
Iviry wan wuz to know
Grate rispict he must show,
When the new-made Arch-Bishop he'd meet.
He sent word that Himself wuz much plazed
That John Bull got so lectured and tazed,
An 'twuz now His grate will
That these shoes you should fill.
(Here I thought the t'rong wondered and gazed.)
Thin you came out furninst grate and schmall,
And shtud right in the midst ov the hall,
An wuz jist goin to schpake—
Whin, bad luck made me wake,
An I caught niver a word at all!
An it's me that is now in dishtress,
For fear that ye did not say Yes!
Sure I'd like ye to shine
In thim robes all so fine;
Faith, I think 'tis an illigint dhress.
But I'll now not ax more ov yer time,
So will be afther closin' mi rhyme;
I think I'd feel betther
If you'd sind me a letther
Directed to Judy McGrime.