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A Satire Anthology

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Год написания книги
2017
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What is life? A thawing iceboard
On a sea with sunny shore.
Gay we sail; it melts beneath us;
We are sunk, and seen no more.

What is man? A foolish baby;
Vainly strives, and fights, and frets;
Demanding all, deserving nothing,
One small grave is what he gets!

    Thomas Carlyle.

FATHER-LAND AND MOTHER-TONGUE

OUR Father-land! And would’st thou know
Why we should call it Father-land?
It is, that Adam here below
Was made of earth by Nature’s hand;
And he, our father, made of earth,
Hath peopled earth on ev’ry hand,
And we, in memory of his birth,
Do call our country “Father-land.”

At first, in Eden’s bowers, they say,
No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day,
And may be ’twas for want of thought.
But Nature, with resistless laws,
Made Adam soon surpass the birds;
She gave him lovely Eve, because,
If he’d a wife, they must have words.

And so, the native land, I hold,
By male descent is proudly mine;
The language, as the tale hath told,
Was given in the female line.
And thus, we see, on either hand,
We name our blessings whence they’ve sprung;
We call our country Father-land;
We call our language Mother-tongue.

    Samuel Lover.

FATHER MOLLOY

OR, THE CONFESSION

PADDY McCABE was dying one day,
And Father Molloy he came to confess him;
Paddy pray’d hard he would make no delay,
But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him.
“First tell me your sins,” says Father Molloy,
“For I’m thinking you’ve not been a very good boy.”
“Oh,” says Paddy, “so late in the evenin’, I fear,
’Twould throuble you such a long story to hear,
For you’ve ten long miles o’er the mountains to go,
While the road I’ve to travel’s much longer, you know.
So give us your blessin’ and get in the saddle;
To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle;
And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet —
’Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I’d thry it,
And your Reverence has tould us, unless we tell all,
’Tis worse than not makin’ confession at all.
So I’ll say in a word I’m no very good boy —
And, therefore, your blessin’, sweet Father Molloy.”

“Well, I’ll read from a book,” says Father Molloy,
“The manifold sins that humanity’s heir to;
And when you hear those that your conscience annoy,
You’ll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto.”
Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity,
And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety,
And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar.
“Oh, murdher,” says Paddy, “don’t read any more,
For, if you keep readin’, by all that is thrue,
Your Reverence’s fist will be soon black and blue;
Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins,
That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins,
So you’d betther suppose I committed them all,
For whether they’re great ones, or whether they’re small,
Or if they’re a dozen, or if they’re fourscore,
’Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, astore;
So I’ll say in a word, I’m no very good boy —
And, therefore, your blessin’, sweet Father Molloy.”

“Well,” says Father Molloy, “if your sins I forgive,
So you must forgive all your enemies truly;
And promise me also that, if you should live,
You’ll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly.”
“I forgive ev’rybody,” says Pat, with a groan,
“Except that big vagabone Micky Malone;
And him I will murdher if ever I can – ”
“Tut, tut,” says the priest, “you’re a very bad man;
For without your forgiveness, and also repentance,
You’ll ne’er go to heaven, and that is my sentence.”
“Poo!” says Paddy McCabe, “that’s a very hard case —
With your Reverence and heaven I’m content to make pace;
But with heaven and your Reverence I wondher —Och hone—
You would think of comparin’ that blackguard Malone.
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