The Speech from the Throne.

Och, shades o' Dim-o-sthane-vs,
An' aitch grate haythin janus,
Discind from high Olympus, an' assist me to implore
The help av all the Muses,
Who ni ver y it refuses,
But ivermore infuses
Me chuneful lire to soar.

I'll mount me bould Pig-asses,
An' thravel to Parnussus,
To taste the springs o' Hillicon an' give me varses tone,
I'm filled wid admirashun,
Upon this grand occashun,
Me thaime is the orashun
Delivered from the throne.

Since Sisero, the Roman,
There niver yit was ro man
That spoke sich tundherin' iloquint palaver;—Och mavrone,
Not Grattan, I'll go bail, nor
Brave Dan, the grate repailer,
Nor Barry, the bould whaler,
Spoke so grand from the throne.

Begorra, I was wishin'
The lovely oomposishun
Was one o' me iffushuns, an' rote be me alone;
Luk here, me dacint naybors,
Sir Herculis's laybors
Wor mighty grand, be jabers,
That day from the throne.

The nate an' lovely phraysis,
Upon me sowl, amazes
The stewjints av the colliges who study the high flown,
'Twas like a purty pome, he
Read wid such sweet aromy,
An' here's an ippytomey
Av the speech from the throne:—

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"Me noble lords an' gintlemin,
Begorra I am glad to meet yez,
Our counthry needs ye here agin,
An' 'pon me sowl, I'm proud to greet yez;
Ye'll find the pressure's nearly past,
The hard times have at last gone by, sirs,
The counthry's cornin' right at last,
Faix, so I'm tould be me advisers.

"The local manufacthurs now
Ingage our sarious attinshun;
To larn the natives how to plough
I've sint some boys, I here may minshun;
I'v taken steps to guard our shores—
Bould Colonel Scratchley's very wise, sirs,
He wants big guns—some mighty bores
He'll aisy find 'mong me advisers.

"The rivinu an' istimates
Are ready for ye in the budget,
Begog we'll have to pay more rates,
But sure I know ye'll niver grudge it;
We've bills galore to mind an meet,
We have been living far to high, sirs,
We're on our last legs, or our feet,
Faix so I'm tould me advisers.

"Av coorse the lands we will unlock,
We want to sittle hardy yo-min
Upon aitch fertile farm an' block
(Whist, boys; for this is only blow, min).
An' now me hearties, let me bless
Yer jewties, labours, an' yer eyes, sirs;
This nate an' beautiful addhress
Was rote for me be me advisers."