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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Special Ipistol

Special Ipistol.

Lambton Kay, Wellin'ton,

Begorra I'm tould there's been anxious inquiries for me in all quarthers, an' a riport has got abroad that I've been rayconvarted be Elder Batt, but its all in me eye an' Betty Martin, so it is. The fact o' the matther is I've been up on another misshun to Tay Whitty thry in, to purswaid him to stop his ploughin' matches. Bad luck to the ould haythin, sure he would'nt listen to rayson at all, at all, an' afther wast in' me iloquince I was forced to return to Willin'ton an' riport progress to Misther Bryce. Av coorse it was owin' to me that the Paice Priservashun Act was passed. 'Pon me conshinse ye'd be astonished av ye saw the way the ould pagan thry'd to bamboozle me. Afther talkin' to him for siviral hours, an' prisintin' him wid me foteygraff, the grate profit ses to me, ses he, "Luk here, Paddy, allanah, faix yer only wastin' yer wind on me, for I'm a mighty profit an' a big seer, although I'm gettin' into the seer an' yallow laif," ses he. "But sure ye can't have any objecshun to take a few thracks to comfort yer sowl," ses I. Is it tbracts ye mane," ses he, "why, avick machree, that's the very thing all the ruckshuns is about," ses he. The Pakeyha has robbed us av our thracts o' land, an' we'er forced to comfort our sowls wid a dhrop o' the craychure now an' agin," ses he. "Don't be profane, Misthur Tay Whitty," ses I, "the thracts ye mane are not the thracks I mane," ses I, losin' me timper, an' risin' to lave the wharry. "Keep cool, Misther Murphy," ses he, "an' I might git ye married to one o' me daughthers some fine day, and give ye a beautiful istate up beyant the moon," ses he. "Give me love to Jonnny Sheehan whin ye go back," ses he, "an' tell Misther Bryce that I'm too ould a bird to be caught wid chaff, dy'e mind that now ?" ses he. Be the hokey I was so much amused wid his cheek an' impidince that I invoked the muses wid the followin' result:

Tay Whitty.

Och ! hip hurroo ! be gog it's thrue,
I've jist come down from Parryhakey,
Sure Misthur Bryce, that boy so nice,
Gev me some thracks an' good tobaccy,
To thry an' bribe aitch ribil thribe
That ploughs our land—an' more's the pity—
Ses he "Dear Pat, mind what yer at,
Jist thry an' snare that ould Tay Whitty."

I wint, av coorse, widout rimoorse,
Bekays I'd got a binidicshun
From Misthur Dick, ses he "Avick,
We'll all be saved, boy, by ilicshun;
Av you bring back that haythin black,
We'll take him to Dunaidin city,
An' save his sowl—the pagan owl—
Bedad we must convart Tay Whitty."

page 85

Now whin I got into his cot,
(In Maori tongue its called a wharry)
Me missage brief, I gave the chief,
He answered, "Be me sowl, I'm sorry
For to refuse the wilkum news,
Yer paradise is mighty pritty,
But railly I am rayther fly,
To laive me people," ses Tay Whitty.

"Me power is grate, I live in state,
I dhraime me dhraimes an' view me visions,
An' aitch How-How I sind to plough,
Obays, av coorse, all my decisions;
They niver quail, but go to jail,
Och, Pat, agrah, I sing me ditty,
An' use the fools as handy tools
To swell the fame of grate Tay Whitty.

"'Twixt me 'an you, the cunnin' few
Will always rise above the many,
An' thus, ye know, I've threasured so
The lavginds tould me be me granny:
An' Pat, aroon, above the moon,
I'll give ye, wid me daughther, Kitty,
A bit o' land, a splindic stand,
To build a pub," ses ould Tay Whitty.

I may minshun, ong passong (Frinch), that Kitty is the profit's youngest daughther, an' more, be token, she's as purty a colleen as ye'd meet in the sivin parishes, so she is. Av coorse, I refused the grate seer's ginerous offer, bekays I'm a married man, an' if iver I was to imigrate to the terresthrial raygions, Molly wouldn't be long in findin' out me whereabouts, an' thin there'd be the divil's own ruckshuns, so there would. Takin' Tay Whitty altogether, I considher him a dacint, sinsible man, that turns over an honest pinny in a very profitable biziness. Sure we must all live, so we must, an' if Tay Whitty hasn't quite sich a gintale style o' sindin' people to heaven as some av our white profits, the poor man's not to blame, so he's not, bekays his iddycashun has been niglicted. I've some illigant idays which I intind to vintilate in yer nixt isshue. Yer obagiant sarvint,

Paddy Murphy.