a treasure-trove of literature
treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership
|
Project Gutenberg Australia a treasure-trove of literature treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership |
|
Project Gutenberg Australia HomeReturn to Index of Poems
There once was a man, call him Patrick O’Grady,
A well-to-do-farmer, of New South Wales,
His home was a picture, ‘mid trees tall and shady,
His sheep grew and fattened ‘mid picturesque vales.
You may guess from his name what his training had been,
Of the truth in religion he’d ne’er had a taste;
He hated the orange, and swore by the green
And believed that all good came from Rome—through the praste.
Now a box to O’Grady one day come from town,
‘Twas full of good things both to eat and to drink;
It was packed in “The Watchman,” Pat sat himself down
And “The Watchman” he read till he started to think.
He was not a bad sort, and the light once let in,
He went on with his reading—an awful transgression—
(The priest might have said “unforgivable sin”)
But Pat kind of dropped going up for confession.
So the Right Reverend Father got wind of the matter,
He could storm by the hour, sure, and never once falter,
And he threatened to read off some terrible patter,
And O’Grady to “name” from the steps of the altar.
Now Patrick was honest, but then as you know,
“What is bred in the bone will come out through the skin,”
He was badgered, and worried, and threatened, and so
Poor Patrick O’Grady grew nervous and thin.
When a man’s in that state he’s the easiest prey
For any microbes that are prowling about
And it soon became clear I regret much to say,
That Patrick O’Grady was going to “peg out.”
Then the priest came along (his name was O’Flanagan),
And pitched such a yarn to the man who was ill,
He grew quite alarmed at the dangers he run again,
And agreed to compound, by a clause in his will.
So Pat made his peace, ‘twas five hundred it cost ‘em,
The bread-winner’s gone, the home circle a wreck,
And after the fun’ral the priest simply bossed ‘em
He saw to the masses, and called for his cheque.
The widow referred him of course to the lawyer—
A broth of a boy, in the famed Bathurst town,—
In legal acuteness a perfect top sawyer
He bowed to the priest whom he asked to sit down.
“There’s a matter of five hundred pounds, so I’m told, sir,”
“Now due to the Church, under Pat Grady’s will;
“ ‘Twould be mighty convenient in notes or in gold,
“Or, if you prefer it, a cheque kindly fill.”
“By all means, your Reverence,” the lawyer responded,
“Sure I’ll pay the amount with the utmost of speed,”
Few lawyers would come to the scratch as this one did,
“Of course you’ve remembered a voucher I’ll need.”
“A voucher! What’s that? A receipt you’ll be meaning;
“Twas for prayers to be said for the good of his soul,
“And although, sir, the time was but short intervening,
“As we wanted the cash, why we’ve managed the whole.”
“For prayers! Not at all, sure, the money was left, sir,
“For saving my client the pains that you say,
“Await all the faithful, of life once bereft, sir,
“And setting poor Patrick quite safe on his way,
“Of a passage to bliss, my poor client was thinking,
“And that’s the condition, as clear as the sun.”
“I’ll hand you the money as lively as winking,
“When you give me some proof that the work has been done.”
So peace to the ashes of Patrick O’Grady,
For that’s how he made up his peace with the Church,
How he fairly outwitted the old Scarlet Lady,
And that’s how his riv’rence got left in the lurch.
This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia