Begorra, I'm not in much av a humour for writin' this week, for sure me ould frind Sir Herkuliss has been ordhered to the right-about face, as we used to say in the milishy an' volunteers. 'Pon me conshinse, its the last time I'll ax the boys at home to vote for Gladstone, so it is. The mane page 87 spalpeen, one av his first ax (not the axe he chops down the threes wid) is to rimove the Guvnor. Undher the cloak o' promoshin, he's given Sir Herkuliss the Cape, but sure its jist done to annoy mesilf an' Sir George, so it is, bad luck to the thing else. An' thin he's sindin' us Sir Arthur Gordon, a gintleman I niver hard av before in the hole coorse o' me life, so [didn't. I'm tould he conies from Feed-Ye, an' if that's the case, he should take up his quarthers down among yer Christchurch folks, where he'd be a grand ox-sillary to the soup kitchen, bekays he'd undherstand how to Feed Ye. I sthruck off the followin' gim to ixpress me sorrow at partin' wid Sir Herkuliss. I'm gettin' it printed on green satin for presintashun:—

A Lamintation.

Asthore machree ! och faix ye see,
Me heart is sore to-night;
I'm in a mess, for Herkuliss
Is goin' to lave our sight.
Sure Gladstone's Whigs—the dirty prigs—
Have ordhered him away,
An' I am sad—it's thrue be dad—
He's goin' to cross the say.

Bad luck attind, an' divil mind
The Liberals at Home,
To thrate us so; I'd like to know
Why Herkuliss should roam ?
Wid noble blood he filled his stud,
We miss his colours gay
Ipon the coorse—av coorse, av coorse,
He's ordhered o'er the say.

Whin Gussy wint, I was contint—
The Markis we could spare,
Bekays his breed—its thrue indeed—
Did not come from Kildare;
But Robinson, his spurs has won
On Curragh coorse—Hoorray!
In many a race he got a place,
Why does he cross the say ?

Be gog, I sigh to say "good-by,"
Och why wor these commands ?
I'd like to kuow why he should go
To Afric's burnin' sands ?
Where ugly Boors an' Blackamoors,
An' ould King Chat-away,
Av savage race disturb the paice,
Across the ragin' say.

The Kaffirs bould, faix so I'm tould
Are mighty fierce an' wild;
The Zooloos, too, make Irish stew
Av woman, man, an' child;
The Hottentots are dhrunken sots,
Bad whisky is their tay;
Och sure it's sthrange, he'll find the change
Across the ragin' say.

I don't know much about the Dutch,
They live on Sour Krout—
'Twixt me an' you that's jist burgoo,
Some call it stir-a-bout;

Aitch city's mare, sure I declare,
Aits burgoo—masther's whey,
An' smokes an' chaws—faix thim's the laws
Across the ragin' say.

Och, Herkuliss, bedad we'll miss
Yer janeyill countininse,
Sure Gladstone should (it's choppin' wood
That's robb'd him av his sinse),
Have kept ye here for many a year,
To sthroll on Lambton Kay—
Me binidick-shun, take, avick,
Across the ragin' say.

Paddy Murphy