A VOICE FROM THE TWELVE
Xow is the winter of our discontent, (hike some rich squatters when they’ve paidthereut Of Maori runs secured without delay) M ade glorious summer by the sun of ifawke’s Bay. Now are our brows bound by a fancy tile, Raised from prize mutton, not common stuff vile, But the real Negretti. Like Mars wo smile To think the Battle’s won, but there we stop, We cannot in the Council Chamber hop, And like a sucking calf that’s lost its Ma Bleat the “Land we live in” to the light guitar. No, we are not such addle-pated pumps, To do the like when folks are in the dumps At our proceedings, but why should we rue, W c’ve merely-done what they lack’d wit to do. And now with placid patience we await The Governor's proclamation ; at any rate Not even he dare thwart the robust sway Of the canny twelve. So now good day. Our song is nearly ended, so fare you well, Lour anger cease, your little hubbub quell. From OLD BAGS. Napier, 11th May, ISOL
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/HBT18640513.2.15
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Hawke's Bay Times, Volume III, Issue 174, 13 May 1864, Page 5 (Supplement)
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181A VOICE FROM THE TWELVE Hawke's Bay Times, Volume III, Issue 174, 13 May 1864, Page 5 (Supplement)
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