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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Special Telegram

Special Telegram.

Lambton Kay, Wellin'ton,

People has been wondherin' what's become o' me at all, at all, bekays I haven'tcumto the front during the ilicshuns, an' gone round wid Sir George on his stumpin' tower. Well, avick machree, I've been so much taken up wid Molly that I couldn't get away, so I couldn't. I've a grate saycrit to tell ye, but ye mustn't braithe it to a livin' sowl, or I'll niver write a line for ye agin. Whisper, an' mind ye keep it dark I've become the happy father o' two darlint twins since I wrote ye last, an' 'pon me conshinse, ther's not a proudher man in New Zayland this day, so ther's not. All the nayborsdoes be sayin' they're the very spit o' ther daddy, an' begorra I think they're right, although I don't like the look o' one o' ther noses. The Markis has sint me a cablegram from Milbourne, congratulutin' me, an' Pat O' Rel has also sent his compliments. But revartin' to polyticks, bedad I'm plaised at the victhorys we're gainin' all over the counthry. Betchune you an' me, Sir George has to thank me for his successes, for sure it was I that rote his grand speeches, so it was. An' now whin we're in the full flush o' thriumph we can afford to be ginerous to our inimies; an' 'pon my sowl I'm sinsarely sorry for that poor divil av a Fox that got nearly hunted to death in Wanganui. Wid all his little iday-o-sin-crazies, he's not sich a bad soart o' fellowafther all. Many a night himself an' me shpp'd down from Bellamy's on the sly, an'popped up to Jack Maginnitty's on the Kay, just to have a small dhrop in the back parlour. Now mind this is onthray noo (Frinch), for if the Timplars wor to hear av it, begorra Sir William would have to be page 60 ray-obligated, so he would. I was so much annoyed be the news o' his defait that I jist sthruck off the followin' thrifle be way o' consolin' him:——

Out in the Could.

Och, Billy, me honey,
Begorra its funny
To see ye, me darlint, without any sait;
It's mighty perplexin',
An' railly it's vexin,
To find such an illigant orathor bait;
In Parliament nightly,
Ye spoke so politely,
In beautiful language yer sintences roull'd;
We thought ye a janus,
A grate Dim-o-sthainus,
But, Billy, me darlint, yer out in the could.

Faix, sure it's a pleasure
To hear ye, me threasure,
Addhressin' the boys wid yer sootherin' voice;
Aitch mighty orashun,
Sure, caused a sinsashun,
Yer Billingsgate dicshun was always so choice;
Aitch sintince ye utther,
Like soft-milted butther,
Or tallow for candles run in to a mowld,
Falls sweet on the ear, sure,
'Tis lovely to hear, sure,
But Billy, me darlint, yer out in the could.

Bad lack to the spoutin',
'T was it, beyant doubtin'
That cooked ye, me honey, Sir George an' his stump,
Disthroyed yer ilicshun,
An' caused yer evicshun,
And lift ye to weep by the side o' the pump.
Grey, Sheehan, and Mac has,
Wid Ballance an' Bacchus,
Gone sthraight for yer brush, dear—at laist so I'm tould,
Within a long "cooey"
Av ould Wanganui
Ye could'nt raitch, darlint, yer out in the could.

Paddy Murphy.