The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2
Special Epistol
Special Epistol.
September 1st, 1880.
From a puroosal o' me Southern files I notice that some o' the papers are makin' a mighty grate noise about the small conthratongs (Frinch) that tuk place in the House a few nights ago. Now, out av frindship for me ould crony V. P., I want to ixplain the whole circumstances o' the case, so I do. The evenin' before the row I invited a few o' the boys to a small tay party an' swarry on the Kay, an' V. P., av coorse, was one o' the number. It was merely a pot-luck affair, although Molly wint to the throuble o' preparin' a few blue monges, an' yallow monges, an' thrifles, an' polonies for the occasion. Sir George an' Mac couldn't come, an' so there was only Dicky Oliver, Tommy Dick, V. P., George Jones, Shrimmy, an' a few more o' the boys prisint. Afther tay the whisky bottle was projooced as usual, an' harmony soon rained taiumphant. The first item on the program was a recitashun be Misther Oliver. Afther a few preliminery hums an' haws he gave the following varses wid grate sperrit an' effect. I pinned them down in plain vulgar English, jist the way they wor recited:—
Oliver's Advice.
The hour of parting's getting near, the Session's closing fast,
And from the railway employés comes forth an angry blast;
I hear their voices as they growl and grumble loud and high,
But put your trust in me, my boys, and keep your powder dry.There was a day when honest men were paid their rightful due,
When Government protection gave to all the good and true;
When officers and employés were linked in honour's tie—
They did not put their trust in me, but kept their powder dry.When Kawau's Knight, to do us harm, went stumping round the land,
He thought he'd win a trick from us—we held a better hand.
Our gathering spell was Johnnie's name, we piled up lie on lie,
We put our trust in him, my boys, and kept our powder dry.Then cheer, ye hearts of Torydom, nor sink in dark despair,
Although its plain that we shall not next Session be all there;
Though Mac and Grey have had their say, for them we've been too fly,
My colleagues put their trust in me and kept their powder dry.Oh, loyal gents, for ten per cent, reduction we have roared,
Though some are scarcely paid enough to give them bed and board;
Retrenchment is our watchword, and misgovernment our cry—
Then put your trust in me, my boys, and keep your powder dry.
When Dicky finished, V. P. tould us a few racy yarns o' the diggin' days, an' wound up by callin' on Tom Dick for a stave. Misther Dick, av coorse, thried to excuse himself, but wid a little pressin' he gave way, an' warbled the followin' ballad in the silvery Dooric o' the north to a well-known chune:—
Hall Robbin Grey.
Noo, Johnny loo'ed me weel, and he socht me tae his side,
He said tae me, "Ah Tammy, lad, we'll quell Sir George's pride;
Tae mak our scats secure, we lack sic men as ye,
Sae Tammy, dear, tak' office, lad, an' join oor Ministree."
I hadna been joined a week but only twa,
When frae his Christchurch seat Sir George was turned awa;
And Johnny said, "Ah, Tammy, lad, that dodge is due tae me,"
And Hall robbin Grey was a guid sicht tae see.Then Dicky urged me sair, though Roily didna speak;
I said, "Ma feens, ye ken fu' weel, I'm unco short o' cheek,
But here's my han', although I'm sure I'll be at sea,
I dinna ken the duties ye're expecting o' me."
I hadna been in office a week but only four,
When Atkinson, behin' me back, ca'ed me "an awfu' bore;"
But Johnny said, "Ah, Tammy, ye mauna notice he"—
And Hall robbin Grey was a guid sicht tae see.Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say,
We pocketed oor screws, and wasted day by day;
And mony a time I thocht the Ministree wad dee,
But in our hatred o' Sir George we managed tae agree;
I gang'd like a ghaist, and ilk day was growing thin,
The Country might gang tae the deil so lang as we kept in;
Tae keep the Greyites oot we heaped up lee on lee,
For Hall robbin Grey was a guid sicht tae see.
'Pon me conshinse I niver before knew that Misther Dick had sich a beautiful voice, an' the manner in which he gave the foregoin' milody ivoked tundhers av applause. George Jones thin tuk his fiddle out o' the green bag, an' played the "Rambles o' Kitty" in a manner that warmed the cockles av our hearts. In risponse to a noncore, he gave "Tatther Jack Walsh" an' "Paddies Evermore" in a style that Peg O'Ninny herself couldn't baite, so she couldn't. George had the the privilege av a call, an' faix he spotted me for a song, Not likin' to appear disagreeable, I sthruck of the followin' varses ixtomporey, on the spur o' the momint:—
Taranakey.
Och, faix we're tould av Athens ould,
Where Soak-red-tays the anshint flourished;
An' sure wid Rome we're all at home,
Where gods an' goddesses wor nourished;
Amerikay lies far away,
Twas there they grew the first tobakey,
It's lovely clime don't claim me rhyme,
Me thaime to-night is Taranakey.Faix that's the place me muse can thrace
The ilimints av grate progresshun;
It's quite as nice as Paradise—
So Thomson tould me in the Session,—
Its fertile lands an' iron sands
For profits baite grate Paryhakey;
The divil a spot, begog there's not
On airth to aiquil Taranakey.Let Auckland blow, bedad we know
It's jist like Christchurch an' Dunaidin;
An' Wellin'ton, its day is done;
Sure Taranakey now is laidin'.
First in the race, ther's not a place,
From Bay av Plinty to Moerakey,
Can take such rank; 'twould rob a bank
To furnish tin for Taranakey,
Be the time me ditty was inded, the kittle was bilin' agin', and the glasses wor impty, so they wor. Round afther round followed one another in quick succession, an' the long an' the short av it was that Molly had to make up a shake down for V. P. on the sofey, while I had to sind for a spicial ixpriss to take the rest o' the boys to the Oxidental, where they got beds for the night. Av coorse this little ippysode ixplains the small scene in the House on the following evenin'. People who forsake "John Collins" in the mornin' afther a swarry an' tuke to Absint (this is a Frinch biverage) are likely to get Absint-minded an' forget thimselves, so they are. Ye'll see be the tiligrams that the Session closes to-day, and ye'll also larn that me collaiges hadn't spunk enough to resign afther bein' baiten on the Beer Bill. 'Pon me sowl, av it wasn't that I don't want to see the counthry go to rack an' ruin, I'd lave the Kabinet at onced, so I would. Sir Hercules wants me to go along wid him to the Cape, an begorra I'm betwixt two minds whether I will or not. In the manetime I'm goin on a visit to Kawau wid Sir George, and it's likely to be a month or so before ye hear agin from yer obaijint sarvint,
Paddy Murphy.
A Pin Dix.
The followin' gims wint asthray in me portfoley, an' so they are out av their rigular ordhcr in the Budgit:—
The Kurnil.
Ye may boast av ainshint wars,
Whin the haythins worshipp'd Mars,
An' the Greeshins bate the Parshins undher Daariuss;
Whin proud Mill-ti-a-days,
(Be the mortial, av ye plaise)
On Marathon displayed his deeds so various.
In histhory we're tould,
That those Spartan Boys wor bould,
But Attic salt should saison Greshin story,
An' faix there was'nt one
Av those hayros that has done
Sich wondhers as our Kurnil has for glory.Ye've heard o' Brian Boru,
Who smashed the Danish crew
To smithereens; ye've likewise heerd o' Wallace,
Who thrashed aitch Sassanach,
An' dhrove the varmints back
To Ingland, Sure he also bait the Poleis;
Faix Watherloo was won
Be brave ould Willinton
('Twas there they kilt me mother's cousin, Rory),
Those laidhers must sing small,
For they can't compare at all
To the Kurnil—he's the boy for death or glory.Av coorse ye must have read
How the Jarmins fought an bled
Upon the bridge av Lody an' Maringo,
Whin Boney led the Franks
To mow the foemin's ranks,
Begorra, 'twas a purty sight, be jingo.
But, blur-an-ouuthers, boys,
Those sojers wor but toys,
Compared to those led be our martial Tory.
Faix, many a Maori chief,
The Kurnil brought to grief—
Och, he's the boy to laid us on to glory.Wid many a wild hoorah,
He often thrashed his Pa
(Unjewtiful o' him to bait his daddy)—
An' many a time he bait
A beautiful rethrait;
He often said:—"Don't spake o' those things, Paddy.
I jist recall those scenes,
In the midst o' dead marines,
Surrounded be the port an' claret gory;
The Anglo-Saxon sthrains
Gets bilin' in me vains,
An' I long to laid ye all to death or glory."Who talks o' Russian scares ?
We can muzzle all the bears,
If Tarthars should come here ipon the fossick,
Our milithary toff
Will make 'em Shouvel-off,
He'll put a nate comether on aitch Kossick;
On Forbury's glorious plain
(A sham fight that brought sham-pain)
Where gathered proud C'lan Stuart an' Clan Rory,
To back the min o' Wales
(In the charge on Watson's ales),
Sure the Kurnil watched the fight for death or glory.Paddy Murphy.
1877.
Mac's Farewell.—aboord a Ship, 1876.
We had a jolly time av it last night. Afhter dinner, Mac shouted all round two or three times runnin'. Dunstan an' Caversham wor goin' to fight, but Mount Ida separated thim. Stout read a paper on "Ivoiution opposed to Abolition," which was enthusiastically encored. Thomson gave us a threatise on the Milton Potthery Works, afther which V.P. tould us his yarn about poor Larry Burke. Mac was in splindid spirits, and afther a little pressin', gave us the followin' song av his own composition:—
Adieu to Otago.
Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu,
Otago, where I've reigned sae lang;
Ma friens, yer healths, I drink tae you
(This grog's I think ow're muckle Strang.)
Though I tae Wellington maun hie,
At duty's post I'll staun' or fa',
Your Mac shall ken the reason why,
Ere abolition is the law.Oft hae I met your bletherin' band
In Council Ha' on winter nichts,
An' honored wi' supreme command,
I listened tae your noisy fechts.
Oh, Rabbie, frien, I trust in you,
An' De Latour, jist gie's yer paw,
We'll stick thegither, staunch an' true,
Ere Abolition is the law.They'd daur to rob us o' oor ain,
But, by ma faith, it winna wash
(Jist pass the whiskey tae McLean,
V. P. takes soda an' a dash);
I've Burns an' Seaton at ma back
(Though Jemmy is a wee bit raw),
An' Shrimski, tae, will fecht wi' Mac,
Ere Abolition is the law.Ma conscience I it's a black disgrace
Tae think that I, your Super, should
Be thrust at ance frae power an' place
(Pass up the grog to Joyce an' Wood);
Though Larnach smirks, an' Horace smiles,
Ma faithfu' frieus we'll find a flaw
In Vogel's mail, despite his wiles,
Ere Abolition is the law,As Rabbie Burns sang" noo's the day,"
I speak tae ye like Wallace wight,
Be ready for the comin' fray
(Here Mauders, drink, ye're no sae tight).
Wee Tuapeka Broon is leal,
An' Shrimski loud his horn will blaw.
Wi' Thomson here—that canny chiel—
Ere Abolition is the law.
Soolieman Pasha.
22nd September, 1877.
'Pon me conshinse the cheek an' impidince o' some people bate's cockfightin'. Whilst havin' a duck-an-durrish (that's what the Scotch call a partin' glass) wid me frind Mac the other night at the Princess's, he dhrew me attinshun to a paragraph in the Otago Guardian, which pritinded to give an account av Sooliman Pasha's birth-place an' frinds. Be this an' be that, I nivir felt so indignant in the whole coorse o' me life at havin' me ould schoolmate's karaether thraduced in that manner. Bad luck to the word av thruth was in it at all at all, for sure Sooliman, as those haythins call him, was mc nixt door neighbour in the Ould Sod, an' be the same token, he was as dacint a boy as iver broke bread. The mane spiddhouge in the Guardian ses his name was merely Sullivan; but it's a bare-faced crammer, for his name was Pat Shaw O'Soolivan which the ungrammatical Turks have corrupted into Sooliman Pat-Shaw, or Paddi Shaw, or Pasha, which they call him for shortness. Pat's father lived about four miles from Thralee, in the County Kerry, where he had a nate bit o' ground bechune Dan McCarty's an' Tim Donog-hoo's, just above the crass-roads beside Biddy Fagan s shebeen His aunt Judy was a grate breeder av cocks an' bins, an' ducks an' dhrakes, an' turkeys an' geese, an' sich like, an' at the age av sivin years Pat was sint to look afther the fowls for his aunt. It was at this airly period av his existence that he imbibed an admiration for the Turkey. One ould turkey-cock especially was a particiler favorite wid Pat, for he was continually Rooshin afther the bantams, the concaited ould baiste. Well, to make a long story short, Pat got Turkey on the brain, the divil a thing else he could think about, an' whin we wor goin' to school together to Darby Molloy's, the gossoons used to call him the Turkey-cock. Well, ye see, about this time, or a few years afther, the Crimayan War broke out, an' Pat 'listed in the Cork Militia, an' wint for a sojer. But begorra, he didn't stay long in the rigiment, for ye see he grew a line lump av a boy about fourteen stone weight, an' he was dhrafted into a heavy corpse, for the Militia wor too light for him bekays there was so much Cork about thim. Thin me jewel Pat was sint to the Crimaya; an' be the hokey poker, whilst he was workin' in the thrinches one mornin', he was taken prisoner be the Turks. They took him for a Rooshin bekays he spoke wid a foreign accent, and belonged to a hus-Czar squadhron. The poor boy was thin packed of holis-polis to Stamboul, where he was sould for a slave to a sly ould divil be the name o' Hoolihan Bey, who turned out to be a counthryman. Och, tare-an-ounthers, there was the spree whin they found out their mistake. There was lashins an' lavins o' aitin' an' dhrinkin', an' tiddlers, an' pipers, kickin' up the divil's own row. An' this is how they found one another out. In the coorse of conversation Pat jist let this one word of his native tongue slip—"Bedad " As soon as the Bey beerd the familiar ixprission, he flung his caubeen—no, no, his turban—on the ground, an' jumped like a billy-goat on a hot griddle, as he shouted "Och mavrone." "Tare-an-ages," ses Pat. "Tare-an-ounthers," ses the Bey. "Arrah avick machree," ses Pat. "Och, gra gal asthore," ses the Bey, "Arrah give us your kithouge," ses Pat. "Cead mille failthe," ses the Bey. "Will ye iver go home," ses Pat. "Begorra, I don't know," ses the Bey. Oh, boys dear, thin the fun commenced. The fiddlers an' pipers sthruck up "Tather Jack Welsh," an' the whole harem—ladies an' unicks, an' all, joined in the jig. From that day out Pat's fortune was made, for Hoolihan Bey tuk a grate likin' to him, and gave him his youngest daughther, a fine sthrappin' colleen, for his principal wife (av coorse he has his harem besides—Pat was always a harem searem boy). Well, about six months ago ould Hoolihan Bey died (though they called him Bey, bechune you an' me he was as Grey as Sir George) an' left Pat all his money an' estates. Havin' inthered the Turkish army he soon rose to be a Giniral, an' he's now smashin' the Cossacks into smithereens—an long life to him. In his last letther to me he tould me that he likes the counthry an' the people well, but he can't stand the dhrink they sell. He doesn't care for the Porte they keep at Constantinople, bekays he had always a likin' for a dhrop o' the crathur. Now this is the thrue an' correct histhory av Sooliman Pasha.
Paddy Murphy
The End.
Mackay, Bracken, and Co., General Printers, Dunedin.