His Majesty's Throne.

Misthur Editor,—I intinded to give ye some rivilashuns that wud startle yer readhers, but Sir George axed me, as a grate favour, not to minshin some little dip-plow-mattic transactions that I had wid the King. 'Pon me conshince (now mind this is a grate saycrit), the life was nearly taised out o' me, so it was, be a purty little colleen that I met wid in the Palace. I may inform ye, widout bethrayin' me collaiges' confidence, that Sir George and Johnny sint me to have a discoorse wid the King, as I am well varsed in the Maori language, so I am. Av coorse they did'd care about goin' to the Royal prisince, savin' yer prisince, themselves, bekays they thought it wud luk undignified. Now, as I sed before, I promised Sir George not to spake o' me transactions wid the King, as it might involve page 56 us in a ruction if I did, an' so I can only tell ye about me little flirtashun in the Palace. His Majesty sint off one of his Royal housemaids to attind on me an' luk afther me. Her name was Miss Morore (a corrupshun o' Moroney), an', 'pon me conshinse, she had a pair av eyes that wud timpt a a saint, or, for the matther o' that, an angil into the bargain. Och, blur-anounthers, man alive, the poor little colleen fell head over heels in love wid me, an' I didn't know what to do, at all, at all, bekays I'm a married man, an' Molly is mighty jealous, so she is. Be the hokey she made me as snug as a bug in a rug, an' sure enuff I was beginnin' to get fond av her whin his Majesty discovered our saycrit, an' thin ther' was the devil to pay. "Lave the Palace," ses he. "I won't," ses I. "G'won now," ses he. "Musha, the divil a foot," ses I. Well, the long an' the short av it was that his Majesty called his Royal Guards, an' had me turned out. Betchune you an' me, that's the rayson the meetin' was a failure. Before I left the place, I took me darlint to a grand concert, where Johnny Sheehan sang the followin' song, which I have rindhered into the vulgar tongue:—

We'll shout and we'll sing boys,
Hurroo for the King, boys!
We're gathered together in frindship and joy;
Our monarch is grate, boys,
Wid kingdom and state, boys,
Begorra, Tawhaio's the broth of a boy.
His castle's a shanty.
His robes are but scanty,
An' out av his small-clothes the monarch has grown;
His ancestors had 'em
From ould Misther Adam,
Sure he was the tailor-in-chief to the throne.

His father, Potaitee,
Was sometimes called Pratee,
He sprang from the Murphies of ould Ballyrack.
His crown wint adhrift, boys,
An' though he made shift, boys,
Bad luck to the shirt had he got to his back.
He dined on roast kid, coys,
Begorra, he did, boys—
'Twas lovely to see the King pickin' a bone,
Wid nice sage an' inions—
Throughout his dominions
Faix, loyalty guarded his Majesty's throne.

The sovereign rainin'—
Mistake not me mainin'—
Though swarthy enuff sure, can't musther a broum;
Although from bis rank, boys,
He sits on a bank boys,
Sure I wouldn't give him five bob for his crown,
His guards dhress in feathers
In all kinds o' weathers,
An' this is to give Coort Society tone;
His queens and princesses,
In ould-fashioned dhresses,
Display all their charms round bis Majesty's throne.

Whin Johnny finished, begorra there were tundhers av applause, an' he was called three times before the curtain, so he was. Ill be back in Willin'ton whin I sind ye me nixt. Me ould frind Herky has axed me to take tay wid him nixt week, an' I'll let ye know the result in me nixt ipistol.

Paddy Murphy.