The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 87
The Thrip
The Thrip.
"Break, break, break,
On thy could grey stones, O say,
An' I would that me tongue could utther,
'This line is sure to pay."
An' now the fog-horn blows, the guards jump aboord, an' a thrimindchious cheer bursts from the stintorian lungs av one juvenile pathriot as he waves a dirty little pocket-hankercher in the mornin' breeze, an' cries "hooray."
page 40Whiz, whiz, whizing we go be paddock, field, garden, an' plain, an' as the clock sthrikes eight, the towers av Ashburton loom in the distance, an' the Markiss whispers to me, "Be the hokey, I'm ready for breakkust, Paddy." Arrivin' at