Ye Tale of a Swamp.

Patea Mail, Volume VI, Issue 541, 3 July 1880, Page 2

Ye Tale of a Swamp.

There was a busj r scribe Of the Lyttelton Press tribe, And his blunders they cropped up Like a host, host, host; When a monstrous Swamp he found Where the A.C.’s would have drowned, If they had not turned around And run back to firmer ground V Before that gallant host were lost '* As if in blankets they’d been tossed. Mr Bryce rushed up alarmed Lest the A.C.’s should be harmed, And the Opposition also Mr Hamlin sent; But they could not find a trace Of that dismal swampy place Where the very knowing Special Correspondent went. O, naughty Croumbie Brown ! From Waimate Plains to “ town” We are shocked at the freaks of j*our long elastic bow ; And the very great expense Of confuting those immense ■ Tales of wonder that you raise Where’er you go. Pray now drop that Yankee pen, And whene’r you write again, Don’t emulate concoctions of the New York Press ; If you’re not more circumspect, In the “ House” I quite expect You’ll be roasted very brown by a certain Jack-Hall, For creating such a mess Through the haughty naughty Press, Which makes you rather less Than small-’all-’all. Which prints your Yankee notions, Your Dismal Swamp commotions, Your high-fnlutin “ cautions,” Your very “ special” lotions Concocted as new potions For patient passive people in the town Which claims you, Brown. So never more come here, To drink Patea beer In the shifting canvas camp, Near that unknown Dismal Swamu, Where your light was like a lamp In the dark ; And now mark : Just write to all the papers, Confessing your queer copers, And then ask all the drapers To tender for the job Of clothing you with back-cloth, With penitential sack-cloth That will not harbor black moth ; And then put on your nob A bucket-ful of ashes, And get some patent washes Of “ special” calabashes, To simmer on the hob. Being thus purged of your treason, Restored to pristine reason, You’ll never more be teasin’ Of us all. There’s just a chance at Wellington, When Bryce has got his spelling done, And Pox has poked his solemn fun, And Jones has fiddled with a run, And Atkinson has paid his dun, And funny Pyke has made a pun ; When “special” business has begun Concerning that son of a gun Who's lately been and gone and done Things which he realty shouldn’t; When Mr Hamlin’s told bis tale, And Ministers have turned quite pale To hear the Opposition wail At losing their Brown Swamp ; When Premier Hall lias read the Mail, And risen after Hamlin’s tale, To castigate Brown with a flail, And make him feel as if a nail Had been put in his coffin; When Brown has been called to the bar, And asked to tell the House how far He went into that Swamp With his private “ special” lamp, Discovering roads where never roads had been ; When Brown has made a meek reply That his Swamp story’s “ all my eye And Peggy” what’s-licr-naine ; When Mr Bryce has gravely moved That Croumbie Brown be then reproved For unofficial fibbing ; Then shall you read this dismal tale Continued in the County Mail, The County of Patea.