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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Mick Avick

Mick Avick.

Av coorse ye've noticed how that ould haythun Sir Michael Hicks-Baich snubb'd us by answerin' our kablecram through the Markiss. Faix he's gettin' a grate boy intirely' so he is, since he got into the Tories' Kabinit; but be the hokey he'd betther take care, or Ill use me influince wid Dizzy to have him kicked out. Sir George was in a mortial state of pashin whin he got the first maymo from His Ixcillency. He rushed up up to me office wid the paper in his hand, an' ses he, "Tundher an' turf, Paddy, what d'ye think o' this insult? Afther lookin' it over, I replies, Me dear George, in this deginerate age an' counthry jewels are not in vogue, or, be the Rock o' Cashel, I'd call the Markiss out an' give him a breakfast on lead, so I would; but as the matt her stands we must thrste it wid silent contimpt," ses I. "Begorra, I think yer right," ses the Prime-ear, but no matther the time will come," ses he, as he snatched his hat and rushed down stairs. Whin I was lift alone I began to roommate on the subject, and considher how I should rimonsthrate wid Mickey Baich, as I used to call him whin we wor at school together; for sure his fosther-mother that lived at the crass-roads beyant the boreen, used to clane the knocker av mc father's hall doore, so she used. Maybe ye'd like to know how Mickey got the pray-fix Hicks before his name. Well, it was in this way:—The cunnin' young varmint used to stale into Darby Molloy's sheebeen an' take the spile out o' the whiskey-kag, whin page 37 there was nobody look in'. Tbin he'd suck at the hole, until at last he got so used to the craythur that it ran down his throat like mother's milk. But, me jewel, it spiled his ilocution intirely, and from morning till night he constantly had the hic-cups. Thin the gosoons gave him the nickname av Hicks-Spaiche. Which has since been corrupted into Hicks-Baich, bekays it's more aristocratic. But the dirty bosthoon has turned his coat and become what we call in Ireland, a "Castle-Hack," an' he's got a saite in the Government for bethrayin his counthry, so he has, an' he turus up his nose at the likes o' me an' you. Och, bad luck to bis dirty pride, it's mesilf that wouldn't condisind to take tay wid sich a low-bred varmint. Afther cogitatin' in this way for some time, I felt the inspiration o' the chaste nine stalin' for all the world like wather down a duck's back, an' I tchuned me harp to the followin' illigant sthrains:—

Och, Mick Avick, we're party thick,
We've crouies been for many a day;
An', 'pon me sowl, sich play is foul,
To thrate us in this dirty way.
For ructions, wars, an' wounds, an' scars,
We arm'd ourselves wid gun an' stick,
To fight, mavrone, for Queen an' throne,
Och blur-an-ounthers Mick Avick.

Whin news first came av battle's flame,
We laugh'd at all the Rooshin blow,
For privateers we had no fears,
We armed the mighty Hineymo
Wid biskit casks an' brandy flasks,
For to frusthrate aich knavish thrick,
Our hearts wor Stout, beyant a doubt,
Och blur-an-ounthers Mick Avick.

Wid fine brigades on grand parades,
We soon wor ready for the fray,
For Rooshin chaps we set our thraps
An' tuk a bob of Bobbies pay,
The foes to fight, in dead of night
Our cannons boom an' rifles click
The slumbers broke av those who woke,
Och blur-an-ounthers Mick Avick.

Wid tundhrin' cheers our Volunteers
Obeyed the martial bugle calls;
We got a pote, be gog, of note,
To write a node on "Spartan Walls,"
Aitch Celt an' Gael wid oaten-mail
Rush'd round Otago's hills to kick
The dirty back av aitch Koss-sack,
Och blur-an-ounthers Mick Avick.

An' for the fun, in Wellin'ton
Sir George an' me tuk out our soords,
To lade the boys, who fear no noise,
'Gainst Tarthars, Koss-acks, Slavs, an' Koor Is,
An' Czar an' Shah; faix Michey grah,
We stuck to ye through thin an' thick,
Widout being rude yer graticheude
Ye might have sint us Mick Avick.

Paddy Murphy.

Lambton Kay, Wellin'ton,