Last week, dear Nichol, making merry

At dinner with our Secretary,

When all were drunk or pretty near

(The time for doing business here),

Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom!

"These Papist dogs—hiccup—'od rot 'em!—

"Deserve to be bespattered—hiccup—

"With all the dirt even you can pick up.

"But, as the Prince (here's to him—fill—

"Hip, hip, hurra!)—is trying still

"To humbug them with kind professions,

"And as you deal in strong expressions—

"Rogue"—"traitor"—hiccup—and all that—

"You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!—

"You must indeed—hiccup—that's flat."—

Yes—"muzzled" was the word Sir John—

These fools have clapt a muzzle on

The boldest mouth that e'er run o'er

With slaver of the times of yore![1]—

Was it for this that back I went

As far as Lateran and Trent,

To prove that they who damned us then

Ought now in turn be damned again?

The silent victim still to sit

Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit,

To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on,

Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon!

Oh! 'tis too much—who now will be

The Nightman of No-Popery?

What Courtier, Saint or even Bishop

Such learned filth will ever fish up?

If there among our ranks be one

To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John;

Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon.

Like me too art a Lawyer Civil

That wishes Papists at the devil.

  To whom then but to thee, my friend,

Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send?

Take it—'tis thine—his learned Port-folio,

With all its theologic olio

Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman—

Of Doctrines now believed by no man—

Of Councils held for men's salvation,

Yet always ending in damnation—

(Which shows that since the world's creation

Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,

Have always had a taste for damning,)

And many more such pious scraps,

To prove (what we've long proved, perhaps,)

That mad as Christians used to be

About the Thirteenth Century,

There still are Christians to be had

In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!

  Farewell—I send with this, dear Nichol,

A rod or two I've had in pickle

Wherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.—

The rest shall go by Monday's packet.

Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following "Unanswerable Argument against the Papists."

We're told the ancient Roman nation

Made use of spittle in lustration;

(Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"[3]—

i. e. you need not read but see 'em;)

Now Irish Papists—fact surprising—

Make use of spittle in baptizing;

Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans,

Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans.

This fact's enough; let no one tell us

To free such sad, salivous fellows.—

No, no—the man, baptized with spittle,

Hath no truth in him—not a tittle!

[1] In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the "muzzle" has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

[2] A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse.

[3] I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him for once correct.