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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 87
The Thrip
The Thrip.
It was a glorious momin'. The purple fingers av Appollo (a haythin god) wor dhrawin' aside the crimson curtins from the gooldin couch o' Sol in the gorgeous west, an' the deep boomin' av the mighty ocean seemed to sing pay-ins in honour av the occashun. The grand voice av the say an' the main seemed to say, "Success to the main line o' railways," an' as I pondhered on the murnful dirges o' the deep, I exclaimed wid Tinnyson—
"Break, break, break,
On thy could grey stones, O say,
An' I would that me tongue could utther,
'This line is sure to pay."
An' now the fog-horn blows, the guards jump aboord, an' a thrimindchious cheer bursts from the stintorian lungs av one juvenile pathriot as he waves a dirty little pocket-hankercher in the mornin' breeze, an' cries "hooray."
page 40
Whiz, whiz, whizing we go be paddock, field, garden, an' plain, an' as the clock sthrikes eight, the towers av Ashburton loom in the distance, an' the Markiss whispers to me, "Be the hokey, I'm ready for breakkust, Paddy." Arrivin' at