To Bridget

Have ye heard what the news is, me darlint?
The Fenians have threatened the Pope!
But, begorra, I think there’s a snarl in’t
That’s twisted it up like a rope.
From a kink in the telescope.
For the news, ye must know, Biddy, reaches
This counthry by means of a wire;
And sometimes the heat o’ the speeches
Just warrups it up like a fire.
Faith! who but the Divil would bother
The likes o’ the Howly Father?

And the Divil is in it, I’m fearin’,
When a gintleman’s called on to chuse
Betwixt Howly Church and Ould Erin⁠—
The shamrock and harp to refuse,
Or be like the murtherin’ Jews.
Och! Biddy, me mind it is troublin’
To know where me body’s at home⁠—
With half o’ me sowl there in Dublin
And t’other half over in Rome!
Bedad, there’s a shplit in the party
Of the name of O’Malley McCarty!