Poem by John Banim

The New Reformation

[Note: Air--``Oh, did you hear
What roaring cheer
Was had at Paddy's Wedding, O!'']

Oh, did you hear
What roaring cheer,
What brave new coats and breeches, O,
And new shoes, too,
For all of you,
Whose ould brogues wanted stitches, O,
Were ready got,
When that they thought
The popish of this nation, O,
To dress, and do,
And feed into
Their grand new Reformation, O?
Diddheradoo!
Hubbabubboo!
Their grand new Reformation, O!
That, in a shake,
They swore would make
Its own of our poor nation, O!

Their cause to prop,
The praty--crop
That year fail'd in ould Erin, O;
And hungry sowls,
Wid windy bow'lls,
And duds apast all wearin', O,
To Cavan went,
And home were sent
Well coated and soft--hearted, O,
Who, all the way,
To the Saints did say--
``Och! it's we that are convarted, O!
With your diddheradoo!
And your hubbabubboo!
And your grand new Reformation, O;
That, in a shake,
Its own will make
Of our poor bastely nation, O!''

A nate young crop
Meantime did pop
Up through ould Erin, gratis, O,
Which, when they found,
The raps turn'd round
Again, wid the new praties, O--
Saying--``As fine saints,
And Protestants,
We et your good mate dinners, O,
But the praty--food
Must now be chew'd
By common popish sinners, O!
Diddheradoo!
Hubbabubboo!
Your grand new Reformation, O!
That, in a shake,
Ye swore would make
Its own of Ireland's nation, O!''

The saints grew cross
At their dead loss,
And at such popish traison, O,
And, day by day,
I'm loth to say,
For the same they got more raison, O;
Some convarts fell,
Through fear of hell,
Back to the ould persuasion, O--
Some did demand
Too much in hand
To work out their salvation, O;
Diddheradoo!
Hubbabubboo!
The grand new Reformation, O!
Sure, in a shake,
Its own 'twill make
Of our benighted nation, O!

Tom Hews did crave,
His sowl to save,
A pair of shoes so dainty, O--
For the Romish rogues
Alone wear brogues,
And the shoes are nate and sainty, O;--
And the saints said ``Yes,''
But nevertheless,
Wid the brogues they thought to blind him, O;
``No,'' says Tom Hews,
``You promised--shoes''--
And he left the brogues behind him, O;--
``Diddheradoo!
And hubbabubboo!
Your grand new Reformation, O!
Is this the way
Ye think to pay
The convarts of the nation, O?''

In church, you know,
From hait, below,
(And faith, I like their notion, O,)
The saints contrive
To keep alive
The warmth of their devotion, O,
And, to be sure,
Down in the flure
They've holes made in ould iron, O,
Through which the hait
Comes up, complate,
And you never see the firin', O;
Diddheradoo!
And hubbabubboo!
Your grand new Reformation, O!
And, loock and speed
To the snuggest creed
That's prach'd in Paddy's nation, O!

Not knowing this,
Poor Bridget Twiss,
Bent on her recantation, O,
Stood over the holes,
Till she thought the coals
Of red--hot hell her station, O;
And her petticoat
Did puff and float,
By the hait swell'd like a bladder, O--
Then Breedge ran out,
Wid her murther--shout,
And swore 'twas the divvle had her, O!
``Diddheradoo!
Hubbabubboo!
Is this your Reformation, O?
Och! here I'm back,
Ye bastely pack,
To the ould faith of the nation, O!''

Ould blind Moll Roe,
Her zale to show,
Of a Friday et their bacon, O,
And the spare--rib claw
Stuck in her maw,
The first bite she had taken. O--
Then sore she bawl'd,
And loudly call'd
On the saints above for marcy, O,
Crying, in her race,
As she quit the place--
``Och, where are you father Darcy, O!
Ullaloo!
And my curse on you,
For one grand Reformation, O,
That makes us ate
Your divvle's mate
Of a Friday, in this nation, O!''

These things, and more,
The saints made sore,
Until at last 'twas tould 'em, O,
That not a rap
They did entrap,
But to the priest had sould 'em, O;
And, worse than that,
Ould father Pat
Was spreading through the nation, O,
Among themselves,
By tens and twelves,
The thruth of a Reformation, O!
Diddheradoo!
Now what'll they do
Wid their grand new Reformation, O,
That, in a shake,
They swore would make
Its own of our poor nation, O?

Lord Farnham tax'd
His brains, and ax'd
His lady for direction, O--
And, says she, ``My lord,
Upon my word,
The day of true election, O,
Is not so near
As we did hear,
For this benighted nation, O,
So, till it comes,
Let's save our crumbs
For the next new Reformation, O!
So, Ullaloo!
And wirrasthroo!
Their grand new Reformation, O,
That now must take
Some time to make
Its own of Ireland's nation, O!

1. Soggarth Aroon
2. Demand and Supply
3. The Celt’s Paradise. Second Duan
4. The Irish Mother in the Penal Days
5. The Celt’s Paradise. First Duan

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