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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 2

Soolieman Pasha

Soolieman Pasha.

Lambton Kay, Willin'ton,

'Pon me conshinse the cheek an' impidince o' some people bate's cockfightin'. Whilst havin' a duck-an-durrish (that's what the Scotch call a partin' glass) wid me frind Mac the other night at the Princess's, he dhrew me attinshun to a paragraph in the Otago Guardian, which pritinded to give an account av Sooliman Pasha's birth-place an' frinds. Be this an' be that, I nivir felt so indignant in the whole coorse o' me life at havin' me ould schoolmate's karaether thraduced in that manner. Bad luck to the word av thruth was in it at all at all, for sure Sooliman, as those haythins call him, was mc nixt door neighbour in the Ould Sod, an' be the same token, he was as dacint a boy as iver broke bread. The mane spiddhouge in the Guardian ses his name was merely Sullivan; but it's a bare-faced crammer, for his name was Pat Shaw O'Soolivan which the ungrammatical Turks have corrupted into Sooliman Pat-Shaw, or Paddi Shaw, or Pasha, which they call him for shortness. Pat's father lived about four miles from Thralee, in the County Kerry, where he had a nate bit o' ground bechune Dan McCarty's an' Tim Donog-hoo's, just above the crass-roads beside Biddy Fagan s shebeen His aunt Judy was a grate breeder av cocks an' bins, an' ducks an' dhrakes, an' turkeys an' geese, an' sich like, an' at the age av sivin years Pat was sint to look afther the fowls for his aunt. It was at this airly period av his existence that he imbibed an admiration for the Turkey. One ould turkey-cock especially was a particiler favorite wid Pat, for he was continually Rooshin afther the bantams, the concaited ould baiste. Well, to make a long story short, Pat got Turkey on the brain, the divil a thing else he could think about, an' whin we wor goin' to school together to Darby Molloy's, the gossoons used to call him the Turkey-cock. Well, ye see, about this time, or a few years afther, the Crimayan War broke out, an' Pat 'listed in the Cork Militia, an' wint for a sojer. But begorra, he didn't stay long in the rigiment, for ye see he grew a line lump av a boy about fourteen stone weight, an' he was dhrafted into a heavy corpse, for the Militia wor too light for him bekays there was so much Cork about thim. Thin me jewel page 94 Pat was sint to the Crimaya; an' be the hokey poker, whilst he was workin' in the thrinches one mornin', he was taken prisoner be the Turks. They took him for a Rooshin bekays he spoke wid a foreign accent, and belonged to a hus-Czar squadhron. The poor boy was thin packed of holis-polis to Stamboul, where he was sould for a slave to a sly ould divil be the name o' Hoolihan Bey, who turned out to be a counthryman. Och, tare-an-ounthers, there was the spree whin they found out their mistake. There was lashins an' lavins o' aitin' an' dhrinkin', an' tiddlers, an' pipers, kickin' up the divil's own row. An' this is how they found one another out. In the coorse of conversation Pat jist let this one word of his native tongue slip—"Bedad " As soon as the Bey beerd the familiar ixprission, he flung his caubeen—no, no, his turban—on the ground, an' jumped like a billy-goat on a hot griddle, as he shouted "Och mavrone." "Tare-an-ages," ses Pat. "Tare-an-ounthers," ses the Bey. "Arrah avick machree," ses Pat. "Och, gra gal asthore," ses the Bey, "Arrah give us your kithouge," ses Pat. "Cead mille failthe," ses the Bey. "Will ye iver go home," ses Pat. "Begorra, I don't know," ses the Bey. Oh, boys dear, thin the fun commenced. The fiddlers an' pipers sthruck up "Tather Jack Welsh," an' the whole harem—ladies an' unicks, an' all, joined in the jig. From that day out Pat's fortune was made, for Hoolihan Bey tuk a grate likin' to him, and gave him his youngest daughther, a fine sthrappin' colleen, for his principal wife (av coorse he has his harem besides—Pat was always a harem searem boy). Well, about six months ago ould Hoolihan Bey died (though they called him Bey, bechune you an' me he was as Grey as Sir George) an' left Pat all his money an' estates. Havin' inthered the Turkish army he soon rose to be a Giniral, an' he's now smashin' the Cossacks into smithereens—an long life to him. In his last letther to me he tould me that he likes the counthry an' the people well, but he can't stand the dhrink they sell. He doesn't care for the Porte they keep at Constantinople, bekays he had always a likin' for a dhrop o' the crathur. Now this is the thrue an' correct histhory av Sooliman Pasha.

Paddy Murphy

The End.

Mackay, Bracken, and Co., General Printers, Dunedin.