The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Special Ipistol

Special Ipistol.

Lambton Kay, Wellin'ton,

Begorra, I've got back home agin, so I have, an' though little Patsey (that's our youngest) is sufferin' from the chinkoff, Molly an' the rest o' the childher are in illigant health. Last night afther tay I wos layin' on the soft sawdher on to Molly (betchune you an' me, wid all me galavantin' among the Maori colleens, I've a warm corner in me heart for the ould woman still), and I'd jist comminced a new song I've rote in her honour, whin I hard a familiar futstep comin' up the stairs. I finished wid the first varse as follows:—

Och, I'm not mesilf at Hall,
Molly dear, Molly dear,
I'm not mesilf at Hall !
Round the counthry I am goin',
Talkin' nonsinse widout knowin',
Spoutin' polyticks an' blowin',
Molly dear,
And I'm not mesilf at Hall!

Just as I kem to this line, who the jooce should pop in but Sir George. Our eggshuberint joy at meetin' wid one another was mighty grate intirely, so it was. Av coorse the decanthers wor brought out an' the kettle was set agoin'. Well, avick machree, whin Sir George had unburthened himsilf to me, an' tould me all about his projected tower south, me ould loyalty to the the people's laidher returned agin; an' undher the conthrollin' inflooince av two tumblers, I burst forth into the followin' ditty:—

Come Back to Airn.

Come back to aim our thanks, George Mavourneen,
Come back an' hunt Johnny Hall from yer berth,
Come back to airn our thanks, George Mavourneen,
An' it s New Zayland will ring loud wid mirth.
Sure whin ye left us for beautiful Kawau,
Little we said, George asthore, in yer praise,
Little mane snarlers, wid yelp an' wid bow-wow,
Swore that yer party a loan couldn't raise;
Come back to airn our thanks, George Mavourneen,
Come back an' hunt Johnny Hall from yer berth,
Come back to airn our thanks, George Mavourneen,
An' it's New Zayland will ring wid yer mirth.

Come back to airn our thanks, George Mavourneen,
Sure all the people is wantin' ye back;
The ould Fox is watchin' the roost, George Mavourneen,
Call all yer huntsmin together wid Mac;
Faix, George asthore, all the people is sleepin',
Give little Jay See the whip in his hand;
Sure he can see where the varmints are creepin'—
Robbin' the hard-workin' min o' ther land.
Come back to airn our thanks, George Mavourneen,
Sure all the people is wantin' ye back;
Come back to airn our thanks, George Mavourneen,
Raise the Gray banner and stand close to Mac.

"'Pon me conshinse, I'm itarnilly obleedged to ye Paddy asthore," ses Sir George, "an' its myself that would like to stop wid ye to-night, but as the boat is about to sail for Christchurch I must be off'," ses be. "Tare-an- ounthers, Sir George," ses I. "give us a stave before ye go," ses I. "Well, Paddy, mavrone, I'll thry a parody o' me own on one o' Tom Moore's most beautiful milodies,' ses he. "Though I can spaik good dacint Irish, begorra I can't sing in it, an' therefore you must ixcuse me for singin' in plain vulgar Inglish." ses he.

Sir George Gray then cleared his throat wid another dhrop av the craythur, an' comminced as follows:—