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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Talksley Hall

Talksley Hall.

Lambton Kay, Wellin'ton,

Be dad I've been laid up wid a sivare could for the last week, an' Mrs. M. has been puttin' bottles o' hot wather to me feet an' bottles o' the crayther to me stomik ivery night, in ordher to work the could out. This evenin' I've been purusin Misther Tinnyson's pomes as I sat be the hob, an' be gorra there's some av his iffusions very dacent productions for a pote of his kaliber, for shure he's not a grate bard be any mains. Be gorra his title will tell ye that, for faix he's called the Pote Lower-rate, so he can't be a first-rate child o' the muses like meself. Afther I finished readin that illigant lamintation av his called "Locksley Hall," the iday inthered into me head av improvin' on it, an' as we open Parlamint in the mornin', I sthruck off the followin' gim, which you must allow is a long way shuparior to the original:—

Molly darlint don't disturb me, I must wake to-morrow morn,
Lave me rest an' if I'm snorin', snorin' on me bugle horn,

Whisper softly wid a "cooey," faix I want an early call,
Shure I want to hear the Markiss blowin' loud in Talksley Hall.

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Talksley Hall that down beyant there, houlds the blue books an' the thracts,
An' the hollow impty speeches, mighty fibs an' little facts.

Many a night, be gog, I've listened—listened, ere I wint to rest,
To the Major an' the Kurnil, an' the ginthry from the West.

Little Martin K from Greymouth, turns from polyticks to thrade,
Now the polytishian's garmints for a Button aren't made.

There's a Thorne in his sait, sure, Savmour George, a youth sublime—
Readher Wood, that Day-mos-thay-nus, talks no longer against time.

Rowl the blankets round me, Molly, faix it's time that I reposed,
Bring a cruiskeen o' the craythur, gist before me eyes are closed.

Whin I dip into the bottle (shure I don't get on the spree)
Faix I see aitch boy before me, M.H.R. an' M.L.C.

In the Session ivery spalpeen thries to feather his own nest,
In the Session ivery Spouther's strivin' for to talk his best.

In the Session, little Jay See spaiks some tindher words o' love,
Whin he's button-holin' mimbers in the lobbies up above.

In the Session, 'pon me conshins, blarney flows from many a tongue,
In the session ganial mimbers sometimes get a little Sprung.

In the Session whisky-toddy, brings the blushes to V. P,.
An' it often clears the cob-webs from the throats o' Mac an' me.

Tare an'-ounthers, don't we blusther up in Bellamy's at night!
An' we talk a thrifle loose, too, whin we get a little tight.

Oft I tuk a glass o' whiskey turnin' in me glowin' hands,
Railly I can tell ye, darlint, there they keep some dacint brands.

Many an evenin' from the binches did I hear the Thribune fling
Bould defiance at the land sharks an' the vile Piako ring.

Many a night we tapp'd the craythur, brought from home in stately ships,
An", like mother's milk, the sperrits mellowed tongue an' throat an' lips.

O me Opposition collaigues, Opposition now no more,
We wor thin Provincial rebels, now we're loyal to the core.

Betther still that we wor liein—(Jack is not the same in place
As he is whin out of office)—Comes the Sargint wid his mace.

Cursed be the little jobs, that stain our counthry in her youth,
Cursed be the two-faced dodges, putting bunkum forth as truth.

Cursed be the cunning thricksthers, erring from the honest rule,
Cursed be the goold that buys up ivery knave an' ivery tool.

Well—'tis well that I should blusther!—Sure the people's frinds we've proved,
Manhood suffrage is the question!—Shall we see that question moved?

Min me brothers, min the workers, it's ourselves can humbug you,
Faix, begorra, we can't tell ye all that we don't mane to do.

Jist before division darlints, that's the time for dacint sales,
If the lobby walls could spaike, boys, faix they'd tell some purty tales.

Through the House the coaxin' whispers, promise billets snug and warm
To the pathriotic mimbers who will vote in proper form.

Whin the vile abuse is scatbered, an' the epithets are hurled
In the Parlimint o' sham—the botheration o' the world.

I to herd wid Harry Mandhers, I to bear the woes an' pains—
Listenin' to the Cutten bong mows (Flinch), so fresh from Taieri Plains.

Mated, too, wid Misther Satan (not the gint from sulthry clime),
Listenin' to Sir Gilbert talkin' little rayson and less rime.

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Thin the Wairarapa Rabbit, runnin' round through Talksley Hall,
Pickin' up the crumbs about him, I can't stand at all, at all.

Comes a vapour from the whiskey—shut the door, put in the bolt;
I must break to-morrow mornin' Hokey-teekey's green young colt.

All me mates—Sir George, the Markiss, Shrimski, Mac, an' Billy Rowe—
Will be waitin', darlint, for me—call me early, I must go.

Paddy Murphy.