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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Special Ipistol

Special Ipistol.

Lambton Kay, Wellinton,

A few evenins ago, Mac, an' Daylahtoor, an' Jay See Brown, an' Shrimmy, an' a few more o' the boys met me up at Jack M'Ginitty's on the Kay, an' as it was about tay-time I invited thim home to take a cup wid me. Afther Molly had rimoved the tay-things, me ould frind George Jones dhropped in wid his fiddle, an' the black bottle that I keep in the kuturd for me purticular frinds was projooced. Be the hokey, we spint a most enjoyable evenin', so we did, an' Mac danced the soord-dance across two brooms in illigint style. Before we broke up for the night, Jay See suggested that I should write a node in honour o' Graham Berry's victhory in Victory-a. As the subject was a most conjanial one. I sthruck off the fol- page 86 lowin' varses impromchew (this is not Frinch, but gintale English, that manes "on the spot"):—

Berry Yer The Boy.

Wid joyful jewbalashun from ivery rank an' stayshun,
We hail the silibration o' the victhory that's won
Be noble Graham Berry, begorra, faix, I'm meery,
And so's me cousin Terry; we glory in the fun.
Since Pompey inthered proudly, wid people shoutin' loudly,
The City av the Tiber, sure there niver was sich joy
As that brought o'er the ocean: the Tories in commoshun
Must gulp the bitther potion. Och, Berry yer the boy.

'Twas fine to hear the blowin' av Atkinson an' Bowen,
An' Johnny Hall was crowin' whin Sarvice led the van;
The squathocrat patrishuns, an' land-shark polytishuns,
Whose dirty roguish mishuns is to grab up all they can,
Wor dancin' wid delight, boys, by day as well as night boys,
But now we've won the fight, boys, this fact does thim annoy,
The people's cause victorious, has made me muse uproarious,
Be jabers we'll get "glorious," for Berry yer the boy.

They sneered at our protecshun, wid ivery mane objeckshun,
But now the grate ilecshun has made thim change ther chunc,
Sir John (surnamed the burly, we used to play at hurley,
An' forty-fives an' football too, at Ballywhack-macroon),
Sir John, from Tipperairy, kem forward light an' airy,
An' yit sidate an' warey (he's always cute an' coy),
An' ses, "Me dacint naybors, I'll tell ye what, be jabers,
For pathriotic labours sure Berry is the boy."

The Argus we despise, boys, we hate it for its lies, boys.
It winks its hundhred eyes, boys, wid vinom an' wid rage;
The Tiligraph is moanin', the Austhralashun groanin'
Wid anger at our Laidher, they hate him for his Age;
But niver mind their jeers, boys, our Graham niver fears, boys,
Ther papers nor ther peers, boys, as Hecthor fought at Throy.
He'll baite the proud oppressors, an' objurate thransgressors,
All liberal redhressors cry—Och, Berry yer the boy.

I'm tould the noble Markis (I niver liked his karkis,
Although Lord Gussy's bark is much loudher thin his bite),
Still goes on intherfairin', the divil a baiporih carin',
But for the coat he's wairin'—I'd bate him black and white !
He looks down from his steeple, and thinks we're only sheep all,
This sarvint o' the people is jist in our employ,
He lives upon our money—begorra, sure its funny—
Jist talk to him, me honey, for Berry yer the boy.

Paddy Murphy.