The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2
Jinin' The Mormons
Jinin' The Mormons.
March 13th, 1880.
Be the hokey I've some startlin' news for yer readhers this week, and divil a word o' lie in it. A few days ago, jist as I was sindin' me portmantey down to the steamer to take me to Dunaydin to jine the Pasthor, I was stopped on the Kay be a sarious lookin' man. "Misther Murphy, I preshume," ses he. "The same, at yer sarvice," ses I. "I'd like to have a few minutes' discoorse wid ye," ses he; "jist the laste taste in private," ses he. Av coorse I couldn't do less, undher the sarcumstances, thin ax him into the Oxidintal, an' whin "we tuk the oath," as the Yankees say he inthrjooced himsilf as a Mormon Eldher. He tould me that he'd jist heard o' me raycint convarshin', an' be was sorry to see me goin in sich bad company. Thin he wint on to ixplain the beauties o' the Mormon religion, an', bedad, he wasn't long in convincin' me o' the thruth av it. "Misther Murphy," ses he, "I can assure ye, on the word av an ixparienced saint, that ye'll like Polly Gammy," ses he. "Arrah ! d'ye think so?" ses I; "Is Polly so purty as all that ?" ses I. "Begorra, ye don't undherstand me," ses he; Polly Gammy is the name we give to all our wives; ye can marry as many as ye plaise," ses he. "Och, murther, look at that," ses I; "tare-an'-ounthers, man alive, don't say another word about it, for, be me conshinse, that's the religion to shuit me," ses I; "an' begorra, I'll get a few more o' the boys to jine ye," ses I; "but whisper," ses I, "don't braithe a syllabil to Molly or the childher, or she'll put the comether on me new convarshin'," ses I. "Mum's the word," ses the Eldher, as he rung the bell for another wink." I'll be startin' for Utah be the nixt Frisco mail, an' the Pasthor will be as mad as a March hare whin he hears that I've lift him. The followin' milody was suggested be the ivint:—
Arrah, boys! did ye bear av the change that I've made,
I'm goin' to give up the political thrade,
Mesilf an' Tim Flinn an' big Barney Macquaid,
Wid two o' the Burkes an' O'Gormans,
Are packin' our baggages up for a thrip,
An Eldher from Utah has give us a dip,
We're bound for Salt Lake in a beautiful ship,
Begorra, we're jinin' the Mormons.
Hurroo ! me bould hearties, I'm dancin' wid glee,
The sweet little craythurs are waitin' for me,
I'm proud as me ancesthor. Darby M'Gee,
Who thrash'd all the Saxons an' Normans.
I'm free from Sir George an' political sthrife,
The Eldher has taught me to alther me life,
In Utah I'll not be tied down to one wife,
Begorra, I'm jinin' the Mormons.
Och, tundher-an-turf! how the darlints will thry
To conquer me heart, as the bonies will cry—
"Sure we are yer wife. Pat, an faix that's no lie,"
An' thin for a kiss they'll be swarmin'.
I've wasted me years wid Sir George and wid Mac,
But now on New Zayland I'll turn me back,
I think I am now on an illigant tack,
I'll make a most beautiful Mormon.