Dead Locks-Ley Hall.

Afther Tinnyson.

Molly I can't ait me vittals, in the night or in the morn,
Since the vile administhrashun thraits me collaiges wid sich scorn,
In our places they are sittin', crowin' loudly since our fall;
Faix the name we'll give the laidher will be ould Dead Locks-ley Hall.
Locks-ley Hall that gropes and fumbles in our pigeon-holes for thracts,
Actin' like a mane detective 'mong our papers, bills, an' acts;
Pon me sowl I'd like to braik now ivery bone beneath his vest,
As I once thrashed big O'Ryan down in Connemara West.
Faix they are the divil's play-boys, but they'll soon be in the shade,
Sure they think they're mighty grand now, but a purty mess they've made Charging us wid money squandhered widout raison, sinse, or rhyme,
Houldin' on to our portfoleys, talkin' bosh an' waistin' time,
page 64 But they'll find whin the discouisin' an' debaitia' all is closed,
That the Liberals are sthronger thin the Tories have supposed;
They can dip into our saycrits jist as far as they can see,
Whin the Major finds a mare's nest he can bring the eggs to me;
In the House while they're in offis, faix we'll give thim little rest,
Sure we'll taise the base usurpurs till we bring thim to the test;
In the House the pravious question we'll continue for to move,
Till we bring thim to ther sinses—sure for thim we've little love;
Thin ther cheek, as I'm a sinner, an' the sthringth o' Wakefield's lung, Won't avail thim from the caustic sting av Johny Sheehan's tongue.
On the night av the division, turnin' to me frind, V. P—,
"Tare-an'-ounthers, Vincent, darlint, won't you vote for George an' me?" On his bashful cheek an' forehead came a colour an' a light,
As I've often blushed mesilf, sure, up in Bellamy's at night;
An' he turned, his bosom shakin' (sure he is a dacint size),
An' he whispered, "Can ye see, Pat, any verdure in me eyes?
Faix, me boy, they've hurt me feelin's, Grey, avick, has done me wrong,
'Pon me conshinse, I have waited patient for a billet long."
Thin I took a glass o' whisky, an' 1 shook him be the hand,
"Here is slantha, Vincent, darlint "(Dunville is a dacint brand).
He took up a foamin' pewther, shinin' beutyful an' bright,
An' he ses, The same to you, Pat," as the liquor passed from sight.
Many a night, an' many a mornin' did we hear the glasses ring,
But the days an' nights have vanished whin we got sprung in the spring;
Many an evenin' in the House, boys, did we hear the coaxin' "whips,"
Many an evenin' in the lobbies did we take the proffered "tips,"
O, me cousin, Pat M'Caughan! O, me cousin, mine no more—
O, the dhreary, dhreary night, Pat, whin ye voted on the floor!
Falser thin all fancy fathoms, falser thin all songs have sung.
Puppet to the squatther faction, servile to the land-ring's tongue.
Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me o'er the brine,
Though ipon yer noble fingers purly, precious diamonds shine.
Sure the Rivertonians, Paddy, sint ye in to back up Grey,
'Pon me sowl they had no notion that ye would the thraither play.
* * * * * * *
Fool, I'm talkin' utther nonsinse, sure, I know me words are wild.
But, begorra, ye'll excuse me, for, bedad, I'm mighty riled.
I to herd wid Takamoana, vacant av our British brains,
I to mix wid sich plabians as the Bryces and M'Lains;
Mated wid a squalid savage, native av New Zayland's clime—
Never, never I I defy thim; let the foeman come to time,
I that rather held it betther we should perish one by one,
Than that Vincent Pyke should iver perpethrate a single pun;
Not in vain, the distant beacons. Forward, let the Greyites range,
In a little week, at most, boys, ye will see a mighty change,
Through the shadows av the Budget, Major Bounce has thried to play Little thricks ipon the mimbers wid abuse av Mac an' Grey;
Mother Common Sinse, assist us, wid ye we have battles won,
Save us from another Richmond, guard us from a Rolleston.
O I see aitch hollow promise broken be the jobbin' set,
Ancient founts av speculation talkin' av New Zayland's debt;
Howsoever these things be, down ipon Dead Locks-ley Hall,
Whitaker 'gainst us may blather, and the rats may squeal an' squall;
Comes a rumour out from Ingland that our loan has not a holt,
Tare-an-ounthers, news like that boys, falls jist like a tundher-bolt;
Hunt Dead Locks-ley Hall away, boys—kick him out an' let him go,
Molly, darlint, I must lave ye, I must hear the mimbers blow.