If God, one member has oppress’d,
     He has made more perfect all the rest.

“The following poetic lines are to be inserted in reply to the doggerel composition of the equivocating and hoary champion of wilful and deliberate falsehood, and a compound of knavery, deception, villainy, and dissimulation, wherever he goes:—­

     “O’Kelly’s my name,
     I think it no shame,
     Of sempiternal fame in that line,
     As for my being lame,
     The rest of my frame,
     Is somewhat superior to thine.

     These addled head swains,
     Of paralyzed brains,
     Who charge me with corrupting youth,
     Are a perjuring pair,
     In Belzebub’s chair,
     Stamped with disgrace and untruth.”

We are obliged to omit some remarks that accompanied the following poetical effusion:—­

     “A book to the blind signifies not a feather,
     Whose look and whose mind chime both together,
     Boreas, pray blow this vile rogue o’er the terry,
     For he is a disgrace and a scandal to Kerry.”

The writer of this, after passing the highest eulogium on the Rev. Mr. O’Kelly, P.P., Kilmichael, in speaking of him, says,

     “In whom, the Heavenly virtues do unite,
     Serenely fair, in glowing colors bright,
     The shivering mendicant’s attire,
     The stranger’s friend, the orphan’s sire,
     Benevolent and mild;
     The guide of youth,
     The light of truth,
     By all condignly styl’d.”

A gentleman having applied for a transcript of this interesting document for his daughter, Mr. O’Kelly says, “This transcript is given with perfect cheerfulness, at the suggestion of the amiable, accomplished, highly-gifted, original genius, Miss Margaret Brew, of --------, to whom, with the most respectful deference, I take the liberty of applying the following most appropriate poetic lines:—­

     “Kilrush, a lovely spot of Erin’s Isle,
     May you and your fair ones in rapture smile,
     By force of genius and superior wit,
     Any station in high life, they’d lit. 
     Raise the praise worthy, in style unknown,
     Laud her, who has great merit of her own. 
     Had I the talents of the bards of yore,
     I would touch my harp and sing for ever more,
     Of Miss Brew, unrivaled, and in her youth,
     The ornament of friendship, love and truth. 
     That fair one, whose matchless eloquence divine,
     Finds out the sacred pores of man sublime,
     Tells us, a female of Kilrush doth shine. 
     In point of language, eloquence, and ease,
     She equals the celebrated Dowes now-a-days,
     A splendid poetess—­how sweet her verse,
     That which, without a blush, Downes might rehearse;
     Her throbbing breast the home of virtue rare,
     Her bosom, warm, loving and sincere,
     A mild fair one, the muses only care,
     Of learning, sense, true wit, and talents rare;
     Endless her fame, on golden wings she’d fly,
     Loud as the trumpet of the rolling sky.