Special Pome.

Beautiful Blow.
Oh ! the blow, the beautiful blow,
Fillin' the Houses, above an' below,
Talkin' more bosh thin the boys in the sthreet,
Humbug so arrant, an' blarney so sweet;
Skitin', fightin', growlin' along;
Beautiful blow, it can do no wrong,
Plinty o' yabber an' plinty o' cheek,
Pickins to get, boys, an' billets to seek;
Beautiful blow, the report hers, above,
Measure the gas,—'tis a labour o' love.

Oh I the blow, the beautiful blow,
Why are the mimbers all blatherin' so ?
Why don't the boys pit the business done ?
It's over a month since the session begun;
Laughin', talkin' lie upon lie,
Tellin' aitch crammer, that's all in me eye,
Faix, don't the boys like to hear their tongues sound,
Full up wid pride an' concait I'll be bound;
Our city is dead till the sission, ye know,
Comminces, an' thin we have beautiful blow.

Och ! how the ilecthors gulp down the ould song,
Aitch mimber is singin' to gammon the throng,
"Be jabers, me boys, for me counthry I'd die,"
Sure that's on the hustin's, each pathriot's cry;
Ringin', singini', spoutin' they go;
Darlints, there's nothin' like beautiful blow,—
Blow so thransparint—begorra I sigh
To think that New Zaylandhers aren't more fly;
Don't ye put thrust in their promises sweet,
"Bosh" is ther tixt whin together they meet.

Onced I put thrust in ther blow—what a sell,
Railly I thought it as sound as a bell—
Bell that the town-crier rings in the sthreet,
Bell that on Sundays sounds lovely an' sweet—
Roarin', soarin', swearin' they'd die
Before they'd be sould in the sweet buy an' buy,
Givin' the counthry ther heart an' ther head,
It's quare, 'pon me sowl, how the people are led;—
Tundher an' turf, have I fallen so low,
As onced to be gulled be ther beautiful blow.

Onced I would stare whin the beautiful blow—
Kem out av aitch candidate's mouth wid a flow;
Onced I would luk wid an innocint face,
Listenin' to boys who wor want in' a place;
Rampin', stampin', jisture—bawl,
These are the things that are keepin' in Hall,
But now, tare-an'-ounthers, ther's some o' thim shy,
For Ormond, me honies, is gittin' too fly,
I don't like to tell ye a saycrit I know,
But Johnny's afraid av his beautiful blow.

How sthrange it should be that this beautiful blow
Should make the rale work av:he sission so slow;
How sthrange it should be, whin aitch night comes again
I'm forced for to listen, wid sorrow an' pain;
Sneezin', wheezin', teasin', ochone;
Wastin' ther gas an' our five-million loan;
Though some o' the pubs in our Willin'ton town
I'm tould be the landlords, scarce collar a brown
For nobblers, from those who are chaitin' us so,
Spindin' our money in beautiful blow.

Railly I'm sick o' this baldherdash blow,
Plinty o' yabber an' nothing to show,
Bad luck to the day whin the Major wint in,
Murtherin' our credit and miltin' our tin,
Whinin', pinin'—"Boys, don't ye see,

"We'd all be insolvents, sure, only for me,"
Faix, that is his sad lamintashun, I hear,
We're kilt, boys," he cries, "for we're down on the Beer;
"Begorra, ye'd think, from his accints o' woe,
That iverything's gone but the beautiful blow.