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Musings in Maoriland

Humorous and Satirical

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Humorous and Satirical.

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The Saige O'Timaru.

In anshint ages, whin Homer's pages
Gave all the stages o' the Saige o' Throy;
When false Queen Helen, wid bosom swellin',
In love, sure, fell in wid the Throjan boy;
The wars were gory, for death or glory,
So runs the story, they millions slew.
Be sure 'twas play, boys, unlike the fray, boys,
The other day, boys, at Timaru.

The grand directhers av the Orange Victhors,
(Ye've seen the picthers av King Billy's horse),
Addhressed the brith'in:—"We'll have a gith'rin,
An' bouldly march out, brave boys, in foorce,
Wid lovely sashes an' soords that flashes,
We'll cut fine dashes in full review;
We'll have an airin' wid banners rarin',
All dangers darin' through Timaru."

page 342

Och, blur-an-ouns, boys, it wint the rounds, boys,
Wid shouts an' bounds, boys, aitch hayro green,
From glin an' nook, a-round be Timuka
Prepared to march to the battle scene;
Aitch Mick or Pat, he brought stick or bat he
Got a Waimate—yer sowls, huroo! —
Then marchin' proudly, an' yellin' loudly,
The boys assimbled in Timaru.

The grand paradins, an' fine procaidins
Av the Orange hayros was the battle sign;
No word they utthered, but King Billy flutthered
On yallow banners along the line.
Prepared for slaughther, they played "Boyne Wather,"
Och, mailie-muther an' pillill-u-u,
Kings James's throops, boys, wid yells an' whoops, boys,
Rushed up in groups, boys, at Timaru.

They formed a square, boys, in front an' rair, boys,
Begog, 'twas quare, boys, to see thim stand;
An' one bould head-man, wid hair so red, man,
Got up an' sed, man, unto his band:
"Look here, be jabers, me dacint naybors,
Ther soords an' sabers will niver do,
It's no use talkin' we'll stop their walkin',
Ther colour-hawkin' through Timaru.

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A bould Cromwellan, of powdher smellin'
With fury swellin', dhrew forth his blade,
An' swore he'd skiver the "Papish" Liver
That daar'd to stop him on his grand parade;
A black Sir Knight, boys, prepared to fight, boys,
'Gainst green an' white, boys, for red an' blue,
He'd stand alone, boys, an' guard the throne, boys,
So bould, mavrone, boys, at Timaru.

The Peeler squadhron (they're always botherin')
Wid rayinforcements came on the ground;
Inspecthor Pindher, that bould defindher,
Look'd mighty tierce, boys, as he gallop'd round.
Ses he:—"Be quiet, don't raise a riot,
For I defy ye to mischief brew;
Don't rise our ire, or we'll have to fire,
So plaise retire from Timaru.

The divil a harm he done to the army,
King James's foorces began to dodge;
King William's laygion, wid the battle raygin'
Inthrinched their squadhrons beyant the lodge;
The foorces sundhered, an' the cannons tundhered,
An' the people wondherred, as the bullets flew,
In Imaginashun an' disperashun,
For ricrayashun at Timaru.

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Och the wounds an' bruises, me gintle muses,
Bedad refuses for to indite;
The deeds so famous, done for King Shamus,
An' how his army won in the fight;
They're crowned wid glory in fame's bright story,
The kilt an' wounded an' the slain an" slew,
Will live for ages in histh'ry's pages,
Whilst battle rages at Timaru.

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They starteda Still in theheart of the mountains,Where rivuletsthrickle an catharacts flow,The babblin' brooks an' the thricklin' fountainsWor fed from the hill-tops all covered with snow.

They started
a Still in the
heart of the mountains,
Where rivulets
thrickle an catharacts flow,
The babblin' brooks an' the thricklin' fountains
Wor fed from the hill-tops all covered with snow.

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The Laygind O'terry M'kow. 1

Big Barney M'Kow came out here from Killarney,
  His fortune to seek in the wilds o' the bush;
A bould an' adventurous divil was Barney,
  He landed before the first days o' the rush;
Och those wor the times whin the Maoris were plinty,
  An' Barney soon won a Chief's daughther somehow;
The craythur was fat, though not fair an' just twinty,
  Whin Barney first made her sweet Mrs. M'Kow.

   They started a Still in the heart of the mountains,
  Where rivulets thrickle an' catharacts flow,
The babblin' brooks an' the thricklin' fountains
  Wor fed from the hill-tops all covered with snow;
Such wather was sure to make illigant whiskey—
  Ye can't get such stuff on the Coast, darlints now—
'Twould make yer hearts light, an' yer sperrits quite friskey,
  The liquor distilled by big Barney M'Kow.

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Well, afther a time in the jue coorse o' nachure,
  A blessin' was sent to the fond lovin' pair,
The darlint risimbled his mammy in faichure,
  But favoured his dad in his lovely red hair;
Ses Barney, "He's just like his Uncle in Kerry,"
His mammy cried "Kapai!" his daddy cried "Wow!"
Be jabers me honey, we'll call the boy Terry,
  Just afther his Uncle, bould Terry M'Kow.

Well, time wor apace, an' big Barney got wealthy,
  While Terry grew up to a fine sthrappin' boy—
So sprightly an' sthrong, an' so brawny an' healthy —
  The pet o' his parents their pride an' their joy;
Begorra 'tis he that could wrastle an' tussle,
  An' handle a stick in the midst of a row,
Bad luck to the Maori, for sinew an' muscle
  Could aquil the darlint boy Terry M'Kow.

Now Terry in workin' the Still with his daddy,
  Soon larned to Worship great Bacchus divine,
An' just like the son of a thrue-hearted Paddy
  The boy took to whiskey—he coulden't taste wine—
He acted as guide to aitch towrist who thravelled,
  He'd take thim safe up o'er the tall 'mountain's brow,
The mystheries o' nachure by him wor unravelled,
  So larned and wise was bould Terry M'Kow.

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But one day in summer the snow on the mountains
  Got friskey an' roulled down the gullies in floods,
An' fierce torrents roared where there used to be fountains,
  And Terry had no time to put on his duds;
The poor boy was just about wettin' his throttle
  Whin clane off his feet he was swept by a bough
That floated along—still he stuck to the bottle,
  An' clung to the brambles, brave Terry M'Kow.

On, on to the Ocean bould Terry was taken,
  But just near the beach he got stuck on the bar,
(He coulden't get past it). While shiverin' an' shakin'
  The boy was picked up by a kind-hearted tar
Who chanced to pass by an' obsarved Terry shiver—
  "Ho! messmate ahoy!" ses he, "cling to the prow."
"O thank ye," says Terry, "bad luck to that river,
  We'll call it in fuchure the Terry M'Kow."

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The Printer's Stick.
(A Typographical Lyric.)

Let followers of Carnage blow
Of Mitrailleuse and Chassepot,
And brag of all the deeds they've done
With Armstrong and with needle gun;
But we've a stronger weapon far
To wield in Freedom's noble war.
With it, my lads, the foe we'll chase,
Each comp. can well defend his case.
    The printer's rifle is his stick.
    We load it with a click, click, click,
    Metal true is the shot we pick,
    Hurrah, hurrah, for the printer's stick!

Our watchword is, "The people's good,"
We fight for that, yet spill no blood;
Our banners broad, of black and white,

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Make tyrants tremble with affright,
We break in twain Oppression's rod,
The people's foes we place in guad,
Designing tools and factious knaves
Must soon become our galley slaves.
    The printer's rifle is his stick,
    We load it with a click, click, click,
    Metal true is the shot we pick,
    Hurrah, hurrah, for the printer's stick!

Should fierce invaders dare to storm
Our hearths and homes, each printer's form
In steady columns, firm and grand,
Would guard our dear adopted land;
In Freedom's fight we do not join
For power, or place, or paltry quoin,
For battle we are always ripe,
With leaders of the proper type.
    The printer's rifle is his stick.
    We load it with a click, click, click,
    Metal true is the shot we pick,
    Hurrah, hurrah, for the printer's stick!

Privation cannot make us fly,
For, lads, we're never short of pye,
And if we should get full of that,
At chapel we can pray for fat,

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We typos are a jolly set,
We always take what we can get,
The printer's soul knows no despair,
Although his frame is sometimes bare.
    The printer's rifle is his stick,
    We load it with a click, click, click,
    Metal true is the shot we pick,
    Hurrah, hurrah, for the printer's stick!

Unto the people we dispense
A precious lot of solid sense;
When public spouters (do not laugh)
Are pumped by our reporting staff,
And often when the "Ouse" divides,
We jeff for our respective sides;
Some public heads, obtuse and thick,
Are softened by the printer's stick!
    The printer's rifle is his stick,
    We load it with a click, click, click,
    Metal true is the shot we pick,
    Hurrah, hurrah, for the printer's stick!

Then shout, lads, for the weapon bold,
That shields the helpless, weak, and old,
Who dares refuse will be knocked down,
We'll make him shout, or smash his crown;
Press onward in the cause of Right,

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The "Voice and Pen" mould Freedom's light,
They form the candle and the wick,
But still the printer holds the stick!
    The printer's rifle is his stick,
    We load it with a click, click, click,
    Metal true is the shot we pick,
    Hurrah, hurrah, for the printer's stick!

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Chinee Johnny.

Paper men too muchy say,
Chinee Johnny,
Too much yabber "Keep away
Chinee Johnny,"
Welley good no sabby me,
China make him plen tea.
Emmigation welly flea,
Chinee Johnny.

Workey hard, too lilly pay,
Chinee Johnny;
Hump him bamboo all le day,
Chinee Johnny;
Grow him cabbage welly good,
Dig him garden, chop him wood,
Get him gole-ly, cook him spud,
Chinee Johnny.

page 353

Me no sabby not come here,
Chinee Johnny;
No get drunky link him beer,
Chinee Johnny;
Welly good me make him fan,
Cook him puppy in him pan,
Plen loom for Chinaman,
Chinee Johnny.

Steal him fowley nighty come,
Chinee Johnny;
Diggy wash-dirt shakey some,
Chinee Johnny.
Smalley wages me no blame,
Inglisman work ally same,
Eat him Chow-chow Cantong came,
Chinee Johnny.

Inglies, Ileies, Cotchman, Jew—
Chinee Johnny;
Plen gammon, talkey too—
Chinee Johnny.
Chinaman no wifey bling,
No good women, all same ting,
Play on tom-tom, ching, ching, ching!
Chinee Johnny.

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Play him fan-tan all night long—
Chinee Johnny;
Moke him opey, beat him gong—
Chinee Johnny.
Ingliesman say "Tax him Poll,"
Me go liggin, make him hole,
Me get lichey plenny gole—
Chinee Johnny.

What for you no sabby me—
Chinee Johnny?
Me much Hghty you come hee—
Chinee Johnny.
Get him money, no stay long,
Me go backy to Hong Kong,
Paper talkey welly wrong—
Chinee Johnny.

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Our Pet Kangaroo.
(an australian idyl, founded on fact.)

We caught the young marsupial
  One winter ere he learn'd to spring;
His ma was shot, and from her pouch
  Hopp'd forth the frisky little thing;
His story's short—his mater's tail
  Was long and made a rich ragout
A novel and romantic feed—
  We all enjoyed that Kangaroo.

The little orphan soon became
  Our pet: he quite familiar got.
He jumped among the saucepans, though
  His loving ma had gone to pot:
He throve so well, and grew so fat,
  Our chef de cuisine Chong Ah Loo
Petitioned us to let him try
  His skill upon the Kangaroo.

page 356

But no,— we scorn'd so mean a trick,
  And made the Tartar-tempter fly.
He spoke of soup, and we could see
  The gravy in his almond eye—
His bitter almond eye, for he
  Was cruel to be kind—"For you
Me makey soupy welly lich,
  All samey puppy, Kangaloo."

But from that day Chong never dared
  To make the same suggestion. We
Some kittens lost—but that was not
  A serious catastrophe;
Our native bear "vamoosed" one day,
  We missed our pure-bred bull-pup too,
We mourned them not, but set our hearts
  Upon the tame young Kangaroo.

We named him Budgeree—that's "good"
  In native lingo, as you know;
He earned the appellation well;
  We watch'd our pet in goodness grow;
We taught him many a harmless trick,—
  He couldn't smoke, but he could chew;
We always found him "up to snuff"—
  He grew so 'cute, our Kangaroo.

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He followed us about the house,
  And on our rambles round the run;
And when his kin we hunted down,
  He'd look sedate and watch the fun.
We took him once unto a ball
  In Tapley's pub. at Bangaboo;
And didn't he enjoy the hop?
  You bet he did—that Kangaroo.

He skipped right through the gay quadrille,
  And joined the waltz's mazy whirl;
He lick'd the fiddler's foaming pint,
  And kiss'd the hurdy-gurdy girl—
"Du sollst es nicht thun!" she exclaimed
  (Which means "Now don't! be quiet, do!")
And no one there enjoyed the spree
  More fully than our Kangaroo.

But thunder often follows calm,
  And clouds at times obscure the sun,
Though old, those proverbs still are trite—
  The "Lancers" and a waltz were done,
When Tapley jumped upon a chair,
  And said—"I've to announce to you
That Dougal Gunn has just arrived:"
  All cheered except the Kangaroo.

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Big Dougal was a kilted Celt
  Who never swore an English oath;
He measured six feet three or four,—
  His tartans had not check'd his growth:
At all the games he prizes won
  For bagpipe tunes. So well he blew,
I thought and said, "He'll charm our pet,
  For sweet sounds please our Kangaroo."

Then Dougal march'd around the room
  With ribbons streaming from his pipes;
His mien was royal, though he wore
  So many brilliant stars and stripes.
With cheeks distended, he prepared
  To play the "March of Callum Dhu;"
Our Budgeree surveyed the pipes,
  And wondered much, that Kangaroo.

And now the instrument emits
  Preliminary grunts and groans;
Notes, wild and fitful, rise and swell—
  The chanter struggles with the drones.
And louder yet, and wilder still,
  The pibroch swells—when madly flew—
Crash! smash! dash!-—through the window panes
  Our peaceful pet, our Kangaroo!

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The narrative is very sad—
  Full ten feet high, from off his tail,
He'd sprung; he couldn't understand
  The martial music of the Gael.
We gallop'd home in hopes to find
  Him safe and sound; but not a clue
From that time out we ever found
  Of Budgeree, our Kangaroo.

And often now on New Year's Day,
  When sound the war notes of the Celt
Through New Edina's streets, old times
  Rush back, and cause my eyes to melt
Fond mem'ry conjures up that night
  In Tapley's pub. at Bangaboo,
When Budgeree left home and friends,
  And fled afar—poor Kangaroo!

Yes! yes! whene'er I hear the pipes,
  Old scenes will rise before my gaze,—
I see the homestead lawn in spring,
  Where wealthy wattles, all ablaze,
Made scented sunshades for the lambs;—
  But bah! I'm getting "quite too too:"
I talk just like a bleating bard,
  While dreaming of that Kangaroo.

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1 The Teremakan River.