  Of priests we can offer a charming variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety, Still I'd advance you, without impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin. Powerfullest preacher, And tindherest teacher, And kindliest creature in Old Donegal. Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Far renowned for Greek and Latinity, Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Come, I venture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard, Down from mythology, Into thayology, Troth and conchology, if he'd the call. Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you, All the young children are wild for to play with you, You've such a way with you, Father avick! Still for all you're so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control; Checking the crazy ones, Coaxing unaisy ones, Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick. And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where is the play-boy can claim an equality At comicality, Father, with you? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off with the rest: 'Is it leave gaiety All to the laity? Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?' Alfred Perceval Graves |
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