The Major.

In days of ould, faix so I'm tould,
Whin folks were free an' frisky,
An' dhrank aitch day, instead of tay
A cruiskeen full of whisky.
They sung an' swore, wid fun galore,
An' niver feared a guager,
They'd hayros thin, that fought like min,
An' battled like the Major.

The Major's cry is "Do or die!
Begog we'll not surrindher;
Sir George," ses he, "compared to me,
Is but a vile pritindher.
I've got the sack, but must get back,
For I'm too ould a stager
To loose me saite, so warm an' nate,
In Guv'mint," ses the Major.

"Och, wirrasthrue, this dirty crew
Won't give me billet back, oh;
Both Stout an' Grey still shout an' bray
Of Waka an' Piako.
Me tail has gone, an' I'm alone.
Och, murther, tare-an-ager,
I'd like to thrash, an' baite an' smash
The varmints," ses the Major.

Now, faix its mane, I tell you plain,
To shift us from our places,
Provincial hacks, for your vile backs,
The harness an' the thraces.
Of this fine State, have too much weight,
I'm game to bet a wager
Ye'll swamp the coach, then I'll approach
An' dhrive it,"ses the Major.

Av coorse I hear an lind an ear
To all the Major's wailin's,
For sure, avick, we're purty thick,
I know his little failing,
Sir George, me frind, an' I intind
To let him fret and rage or
Fume or spout, we'll keep him out,
We're Gin' rals,—he's a Major,