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!