The Dimonstrashun.

A demonstration was held in Dunedin in favor of retaining the Provincial institutions.

Ye gintle Muses, who ne'er refuses,
But still infuses in the Poet's lay,
I claim attintion, an' condiscinsion,
Whilst I now mintion what I've got to say.

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Och, the dimonstrashun, that grand ovation,
No other nation saw such a sight,
In song or story, or thradition hoary,
As on the mornin' o' the Banqit night.

Wid soords a flashin,' togged out in fashion,
Those haros dashin'—the Volunteers,—
Would have marched proud, sure, but they worn't allowed, sure,
An' thin the crowd, sure, burst out in cheers.

The cannons tundhered, an' the clouds were sundhered,
An' the people wondhered at the mighty noise,
An' the hills wor shakin', an' the earth was quakin',
Be the hokey poker, it was fine, me boys.

Thin the bould Committee marched through the city
(Och, more's the pity av ye worn't there).
Wid knots o' blue, sure be gog its thrue, sure,
An' Mac kept bowin', wid his head ail bare.

Thin Misther Hooper approached the Super,
Whilst the boys did whoop, or cry "hip hooray;"
He read a pome, sure, sayin'—"Yer welkim home, sure,
Faix we wor lonely while ye wor away."

Thin, the procession (without digression)
Was the grandest sight that has iver been;
Och, sich paradin' wid John Barnes a ladin'
On his prancin' charger—'twas a lovely scene!

Thin the Societies, av all varieties,
And the thra-la-li-ities o' the Taieri band,
Would have been splindid, if they'd attinded,
Wid their searfs an' sashes, an' their banners grand.

Four greys so spunkey, an' no ways funky,
(I missed the donkey o' Dickey Miles),
Dhrew on the carriage (I don't disparage,
But Fitz an' Geordie kept on their tiles).

Big crowds wor out, sure, along the rout, sure,
Be gog, the shouts, sure, were small they made;
Most consiquintial in this fate Provincial
Was Farley's badle, from the new Arcade.

Och, Mars an' Bacchus, an' Caius Gracchus,
An' Jupither Pluvius, an' Saysir too,
Sich flow'ry praties (some call thim taties)
We got at night, boys, in our Irish Stew.

Wid Sir George a gushin', an' Bunny blushin',
An' Mac a flushin', full o' modest pride,
Be the powers 'twas splindid,—but now it's inded;
So, wid yer lave, I'll put me harp aside.