AN ELECTION MEETING.

Cromwell Argus, Volume IV, Issue 191, 8 July 1873, Page 6

AN ELECTION MEETING.

By Darby Doyle.

Misthur Idditur : Sur,—lt ud bo maybe a fortnit agone, I had bisness at a place called Shleepvill or somethin’ o’ that soort—l partly disremimber the name ; anyhow, if that’s id, id’s a very proper wan, for the divil a schlapier place iver [ see. An’ id’s a town too, an’ barrin’ the want ov shtreets an’ houses, id’s a nate bit of a village. Howandiver, id’s not about the town I want to shpake, but about the doin’s I saw that nite I wint down for a pownd ov backy. There wor a good manny diggers an’ chaps knockin’ round, and sez I to wan, “ Fhwat’s all the ruction about, mate ?” “ We ’re waitin’ fur the Kandidate,” sez he. “’Fhwat kandidate ? ” sez I. “ Misthur Makiller,” sez he ; “he’s goin’ to addhress the illictors at Billsmith’s this evenin’.” “ Will there be anny fun ? ” sez I. “Faix an’ ye’d betther shtop and see,” sez he. An’ so I did, fur I’m fond ov a bit ov divarshin anny toime. I wint into the whishky-mill an’ called fur a noggin, an’ sot meself down along wid the rist. We waited a good bit, an’ Mr Makiller was, as the paper chaps sez, “ konspicuse by his absince.” Then wan illictor got up an’ sed, “ Gintlemen. somethin’ prevints Mr MakiU ler kapin’ his wurd to-nite, so fwhat’s to hindlier us houklin’ a matin’ widout him ?” “Rite ye are !” sez we : an’ a Misthur Downonhim was towld to take the chare, an’ he tuk id. Then the illictor made a bit ov a spache, an’ tould ns he would rade Misthur Makiller’ s addhress to the illictors in another place —an’ so he did in good shtyle ; an’ then sez he, “ There’s two min in the field, as ye know, an’ now I ’ll rade Misthur Ooakley’s addhress, as it’ll ony be fair to give him a chance, seein’ nayther ov thim’s here.” ’ Whin he’d finished, the Chareman said, “ Ordher, gintlemen—ordher.” I don’t think the chareman was much ov a spachefier, fur tho’ he shpoke manny a time, he ony said thim words, “Ordher, gintlemen—ordher.” Then a chap got up, an’ sez he, “ I propose Misthur Makiller’s health—l mane—” “ Sit dhown,” sez some wan. “ I won’t,” sez he ; “ 1 mane, to be a lit an’ prapper purson to riprisint this importhant dishthrict.” Another got up an’ said, “ I siccond it.” Then we wor tould to hould up our tishts, an’ we did ; and the Chareman said Misthur Makiller wor illicted. Then up shtarts a towney ov me own, an' sez he, “I propose Misthur Coakley” ; an’ ov coorse I sicoonded him, an’ we held up I our fishts, but divil a wan else did—so the Chareman said it was no go. Then up gets a weezly little chap, an’ sez he, “ I know’d Makiller whin he furst kim to wurk fur the dushty carpinther.” “ Yuresilf,” sez I, knowin’ he was a carpinther by trade. Wid that the leprechaun blazed up an’ said, “No, sur.” ’ “Oh,” sez I, “seein’ ye carry a dale ovt| | landed prapurty about wid ye, I thought ye i mint yuresilf.” I _ But the matin’ was dhry, an’ they wouldn't 1 lisshen to the little chap ; so whishkv wns | brought in, and Misthur Billsmith, the landj lord, gave us the hoighth ov good livin’ ; and I fwhat wid the whishky an’ the tucker, we ! soon begun to be frishky. Afther a dale oV songs wor sung, sez I, “Gintlemen, by your lave I’ll give yea verse or two.” “Well done, Darby!” sez they; an’l begun: J “ The immortial Smith o’Brine Was ragin’ like a loion—” Whin, oh wirasthru ! millia murther ! —shlap acrass me bake cums an ould brogue 1 “ Blood an’ ouns ! ” sez I, “ who throwed that ? ” “ Why, ye smadhaun, fwhat are ye mattherin’ an’ gruntin’ there, like a pig in a tit, fur this last hour? Bad loock to ye, ye ’re afther dishturbin’ the naybours.” = “ Where am I ? ” sez I. “ Why, in yer bunk ; where else would ye i bo?” . An’ thin I seen I was at home, an’ niver at i the-matin’ at all at all. My mate, Mickey Doolan, it was him was at the matin’, an' whin he kim home he kep’ me waivin’ two hours, tollin’ mo ov the goin’s on, an’ I juslit • fell ashlape an’ drempt it all over agin. So, ! Misthur Iddithur, ye see I think I’d makes good reporther, bein’ able to tell ov things I niver saw. But it’s all thrue for the matther jov that, —so if ye like to print it ye’re wel-l kim ; but if ye don’t resave me letthcr, niver j ' mind. May the divil fly away wid Mike—he's ■ give me a purty bake ; it shtands out betwixt. me two eyes loike a prize pratee, an’ makes \ 1 uie slipellin’ bad. Howiver, I belave ye’ve| ■ got mosht ov tho particklers ov the grate I I matin’, so good-bye fur the prisent. Darby Doyle. I [ Hill ov Hon:lh, Jane the furst.