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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

A New Pome

A New Pome.

Lambton Kay, Wellin'ton

Av coorse ye've larn't be tiligram that we've called Rewi to the House o' Peers (he'll be a jetty peer so he will) an' he's to take his saite this session. Well the news has given mortial oftince to a number of his thribe, at laiste so I'm tould. One clansman of his, a young Naughty-man-a-pote-o, has sthrung off the followin' lamintation in consiquince, an' mesilf an' Johnny Sheehan have translated it. We done it be bad gaslight, and that's the rayson the meether is out of ordher:—

Tang I for Rewi.

Och, Rewi, botheration, sure ye've come to degradation,
An' this murnful lamintation
Is sorrowful an' true,
It's purty laws ye gave us, we niver thought ye'd lave us,
To bother an' decaive us,
The back o' me hand to you.

Sir George, the ily varmint, came an' prached to you a sarmint,
An' ye covered nachur's garmint
Wid a nobby shuit so new;
We thought ye'd have a barney, but he thrapped ye wid his blarney
(Sure he travelled in Killarney)
The back o' me hand to you.

page 29

We raired ye clane an' dacint in a wharry here adjacint,
But yer vile disgrace was hastened
By the ruin that's called blue,
Which niver saw inspecthor, red tape is now yer necthar,
Faix no more ye'll be our Hecthor,
The back o' me hand to you.

Aitch pote has sung yer story, at Orakow so gory,
Where ye gathered wraiths o' glory,
We stuck to ye like glue;
Yer loyal thribe an' clan, ah, thin bowed before yer mana,
But now, ochone, allanah,
The back o' me hand to you.

A dirty way yer thrated, be dad, me boy, yer chated,
Wid the superannuated
Ould fogies! If ye knew
The way they'll thry to rule ye, to hood-wink an' to fool ye,
In thrickery they'll school ye,
The back o' me hand to you.

Wid us ye'd work to do man, a savage yet a thrue man,
But now faix ye're a new man,
They've fixed ye wid a screw;
The Pakeyha has bought ye, and in his snare he caught ye,
To Parlimint he's brought ye,
The back o' me hand to you.

Ye'll hear ould wives debatin', an' lyin' too, an' chatin',
Be gog, it's thruth I'm statin'
They've nothin' else to do;
They'll stale our land, be jabers,
Pretindin' that they're naybours,
An' laugh at all yer labours,
The back o' me hand to you.

Paddy Murphy.