Paddy Dear.

Sure it's mesilf that's been mighty onaisy in me mind all the week, so I have, bekays me frind Misther Macaughan is in the dumps. Begorra, I've not been able to attind to the jewties portainin' to me portfoley, since I've larned how mane me collaiges have behaved to Pat. Last Friday evenin' I was sittin, in me stewjeo puroosin' the last number o' the Sathurday Advertiser whin me ear was atthracted be a soft footstep on the stairs, an' lookin' up I beheld Misther Macaughan lookin' the pictbur o' misery an" dispair. "What, in the name av all that's varchous, is the matther wid ye, Pat? ses I. "Och, wirrasthru ! wirrasthru ! Paddy, mavrone," ses he, "I' m in very low sperrits," ses he, an' wid that he unburthened his bussum to me, an' tould me how the mane blackguards bad thraited him, bad luck to thim. "This is an ungrateful world, Misther Murphy," ses he, "an' its mesilf that's mighty sick av of it, so I am," ses he. "Sure I've stuck up for the presint Ministhry through thick an' thin, an' signs on it, they've desalted me in me hour o' need, so they have," ses he; "they've not put me name on a single come-at-tay," ses he, "an' I don't care to come at coffee bekays it gives me the bile," ses he. I was so much hurted be me frind's misfortunes that I sthruck off the followin' poetic gim:—

Did they lave ye in the cowld,
Paddy dear, Paddy dear?
Did they lave ye in the cowld,
Paddy dear?
Sure ye hadn't got a say,
On a single come-at-tay,
Though ye tundhered aginst Gray,
Paddy dear.

Faix yer beautiful idays,
Paddy dear, Paddy dear,
Sthruck tundher an' amaze,
Paddy dear,
Through every Southland muff,
Ye piled it on so tough,
From Winton to the Bluff,
Paddy dear.

More shame to Johnny Hall,
Paddy dear, Paddy dear,
Yer not thrated right at all,
Paddy dear,
Ye work'd aitch little job,
An' bamboozled all the mob,
For the Government, be gob,
Paddy dear.

Ye have sown an' ye should raip,
Paddy dear, Paddy dear,
They have bought ye far too chaip,
Paddy dear;
Yer lovely Hallite frinds,
Have work'd ye for their inds,
Me complimints I sinds,
Paddy dear.

Ye've got a dacint head,
Paddy dear, Paddy dear;
Though a thrifle aisy led,
Paddy dear;
Arrah, don't ye be a fool,
But laive the "Divil's Pool,"
Or they'll use ye as a tool,
Paddy dear.

Paddy Murphy.