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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Mayor's Banket

Mayor's Banket.

This was one o' the most illigant affairs I've iver pathronised. The tables groaned undher the plates, an' tumblers, an' wather-jugs, an' ivergreeus, an' corn-tongues, an' spoons, an' knives, an' forks, an' jellies, an' blue-monges, an' yallow-monges, an' red-monges, wid here an' there a bottle av claret an' a decanther av sherry to relaive the plisint monotony o' the festive seen, whilst at the Vice-raygil ind o' the table, where me an' the Markiss sat, there was three whole bottles av rale shampain, the divil a word o' lie in it. His Worship's liberality was most magnanymous, an' I'm tould on good authority that the gintlemin o' the press, who wor privileged to sit up above in the reporther's coop, wor thrated to a small bottle o' rodhero, betchune tin o' them. Sich ginerosity desarves to be rekorded. I'll not throuble ye wid a report av the spaiches. They wor grand crashuns intirely, so they wor, and Docthor Turnbull surpassed himself, but it was a mortial pity that he cut his spaich so short. He wound up wid the followin' poetic piroration, which he thranslated himself from the Moorish language:—

"Whin I remimber all
The 'tots' we've had together,
When cronies used to fall
Like laives in dusty weather,
I feel like one who dhrinks alone,
Chaip wine wid cork long started,
The flavour's fled, the sperrit's dead,
An' all the stringth departed."

Afther the bankit our party returned to the Club, an' tuk a few tumblers o' punch to sittle our stomiks, an' keep off the nightmare. Thin we had a six-handed game o' forty-fives, as it wasn't worth while turnin' in afore the time o' startin'. Mesilf, the Markiss, an' Pat O' Rell, our aid-to-kong (Frinch), wor partners, whilst Major Lain, Kaptin Townsind, an' George M'Lean, wor our veesey-vees (Frinch). We bait thim two out o' three, owin' to me shuparior knowledge o' the game. The Major thried to chaite once or twice, but I was too knowin' for him. These ould sojers are up to all kinds o' thricks, so they are. An' now for a condinsed account o'