I'm in a milancolly mood agin this week, for that mane ommadhaun, Bryce, has been backbitin' Johnry Sheehan, so he has. Jist bekays Johnny is a janial ginerous boy that loves the darlints, an' small blame to him, Misther Bryce thries to make out that me former collaige miss-o-propriated the funs, keepin' the Maori girls quiet. Some o' these could-blooded in-dovijuals that niver filt a glow av love's young dhraime cannot rayilise the posishun av a warm-hearted boy like Johnny thrown into the society av a crowd o' half-castes an' hole-castes. I've no patience wid such min, so I've not, an' more be token, I'll give Misther Bryce a bit o' me mind the nixt time I meet him up at Jack M'Ginnaty's on the Kay. I'm goin' to write a long haroic an' ipic pome on the subject o' Johnny an' his Maori loves. Ye'll glain be the folloin' specimin that I've adopted Misther Longfellow's style, though av coorse my varses are much shuperior to the Ameri-can pote's:—

Firewather.

Should ye ax me what's the rayson
Johnny does not show his nose here,
Though the session is advancin'
In the Timple o' Palaver ?
I should answer, I should tell ye
That ould Bryce, the dirty blackguard
Is disthroyin' the kar-ack-thir
O' the darlint o' the ladies,
O' the boy that loves the craychures,
(Not the sperritual craychures
Known as Kinnahan an' Dunville,
But the deep dark-eyed Whyenas,
Down beyant grate Paryhaky).
He's the boy can use the blarney,
'Mong the lovely sable colleens,
Through the valleys o' Waikato
O'er the plains o' Paryhaky;
page 82 But the mane suspicious blackguards
Sit tin' on the Guv'mint binches,
Sittin' there, an' more's the pity,
Thry to blacken his kar-ack-thir;
Jist bekays he spint a thrifle
For the comfort o' the colleens,
Raisin' up the mighty Sperrit,
Known to fame as Firewather;
Jist bekays his manly bussum,
Filled with milk o' human kindness,
Listened to the noble savage—
To aitch queenly faimale savage,
As she tould her tales o' sweet love,
Undher the sublime inflooince
O' the Sperrit—Firewather.
Och, me curse ipon the varmints,
Who would thus blight young affection,
Jist bekays a palthry thousand
Wint away to Paryhaky.
Niver mind the dirty railins,
An' the vile abuse an' slandhera
O' the mane decaitful blackguards
Who are sittin' on the binches:
Think ipon the dusky fair ones,
Who ipon the grate Waikato
Chime their voices to the wavelets
O' the foamin' wide Waikato,
Iver singin', "Johnny, darlint,
Yer as lonely as the aigle,
An' as purty as the kiwi
Soarin' over grate Waikato,
Johnny ye are Kapai! Kapai!
Thry and get once more in office,
Sind us up the mighty Sperrit,
Sind us up strong Firewather."
This is the lamints an' wailins
O' the darlints in the North land.

Paddy Murphy.