The Beer Tax.
Lambton Kay, Wellin'ton,
8th June, 1880.
'Pon me conshinse, the life is taised out o' me, so it is wid Johnny an' his party. I tould thim some time ago that I'd have to sever me conneckshum wid thim, bekays I like to be seen in dacint company; but, bad scran to thim, they won't let me give up me portfoley, so they won't Be the hokey, I'm too soft-hearted, so I am, an' me collaiges takes advantage o' me failin's. Av coorse I know that the Ministhry couldn't stand a single day widout me, an' that's the rayson I was injooced to attind the cowcass to considher the Major's Budjit. It's almost needless to inform ye that the raymodellin' av the fineanshil statement was jew to me. Av they hadn't taken my advice about the rayimposishun av the Beer Tax, faix the hole schaime o' taxashun would have been broken down, so it would. I know me cousin Mick will feel mighty vexed at me ackshun in this matther, so I want ye to tell him that private frenships must always give way to the public good. The Major
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was a little narvous at first about adoptin' my suggestshun, bekays the Beer Tax was Misther Ballance's iday. "Luk here, Paddy Allanah," ses he, "they'll be takin' me for a jackdaw in paicock's feathers, so they will," ses he. "Well, niver mind that, Major, me boy," ses I, "dacinter jackdaws thin you have sthrutted about before now in borrowed plumes," ses I. The cow-cass was a most enjoyable inthertainment, an' we enlivened the politikil proeaidins wid a little harmony. Most o' me collaiges are beautiful singers, an' whiniver they want a varse or two I jist sthrike thim off a few vocal gims. Whin we'd polished off a few bottles o' Dunville's "craim o' tarther," the Major burst into milody as follows:—
Come all ye bould pathriot-frinds o' the nation,
Ye swipers an' gripers jist lind me an ear;
I've hit on a beautiful bit o' taxashun,
I've tapped a fresh hogshead o' Ballance's Beer.
The flavour's improved since the brewer first dhrew it,
I give ye me word, boys, the liquor will stand;
Sure I am the barman that knows how to do it,
I've stuck our own lable on Ballance's brand.
The Major's health an' song was honoured in flowin' bumpers, an' there was a nnanimous call on Misther Dick for a stave. Av coorse, ye know that Tommy is frightfully bashful, an' it was wid grate difficulty that he consinted to warble forth the followin' lines. I've rote them in the silvery Dooric o' the North, just as he pronounced them:—
Ma freens, the folk, I ken, in New Edinboro' toon—
An' I mak the observation wi' a tear—
Hae throttles seasoued weel by guid whisky running doon,
They dinna fash sae muckle aboot beer.
Let the tax come into play,
Though we borrowed it from Gray.
Ilk brewer loon may froon, and cry, "Na, na; it winna do;
Ye winna, winna,
Canna, canna,
Mauna tax oor brew."
We called on Johnny, next, for a ditty, but he's got sich a bad cowld in his throat, that he caught at Leeston, we couldn't prevail on him to sing. The Major offered to become his substitute, and broke out in a fresh place, as follows:—
Me Budjit is full to the top, John Hall,
Begorra, on it we will stand or fall.
I've borrowed the Beer Tax from Ballance, hooray!
We may as well use up the measures of Grey;
Or else we must mizzle too, now,
Or else we must mizzle too, now.
There was thriminjous cheerin' whin the Major finished, an' as he had the nixt call he axed Rolleston to favour the company wid a milody. I may inform ye that Misther Rolleston was the only one o' the Ministhry who was opposed to the Beer Tax, bekays, he sed, it wouldn't go down in Christchurch, at all, at all. The followin' is his song:
Och, darlints, I think if this cruel tax passes,
The Pilgrims I love will be givin' me slops;
For all me konstituents are fond o' their glasses,
An' faix they are likewise all partial to hops;
Av coorse I'm aware of our shortness of threasure,
But railly I fancy this is a bad move;
An' spaikin' to the pint, boys, they like a good measure,
But this won't go down wid the Pilgrims I love,
But this won't go down wid the Pilgrims I love.
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We couldn't injooce Misther Brycc to exercise his lungs, so we couldn't, an' so we broke up wid the followin' chorus:—
Beer, boys, Beer, no more of idle sorrow,
Courage, true hearts, will beer us on our way;
Hops to the fore, no longer can we borrow
From Mother England millions we can't pay.
I'll sind ye some purty little tit-bits o' political scandal in me nixt. In the manetime allow me to remain yer obajint sarvint,