A NEW CHUM'S LETTER FROM TIMARU TO HIS BROTHER IN IRELAND.

Temuka Leader, Issue 1050, 2 January 1883, Page 3

A NEW CHUM'S LETTER FROM TIMARU TO HIS BROTHER IN IRELAND.

The following amusing piece, written some twenty years ago by ( J.T.M.’, of Timaru, and who at one time contributed some very clever rhymes to the Timaru papers, was read by Mr R, J. Lavery at the recent concert at Milford. After shortly describing the sea voyage, the writer gives a graphic account of Timaru as it then was, and a few of the common experiences of an immigrant in those days. It speaks for itself : Dear Mickey,—At length our sea-voyage is past, And we’ve got to this mighty New Zealand at last ; And, suro, but I’m glad ; for one thing or

another Makes this crossing the ocean a douce of a

bother. There’s first the sea sickness—bad luck to

the pain— Its myself that was killed, Mickey, agaiu and again ;; Salt-water by gallons forced down my poor

throttle Till my inside was washed out as clean as

a bottle. Then the food that we got made us think

of our sins— Potatoes like gravel, and horse flesh in tins — Such fighting for what they call coffee

and tea, Such duffs without fruit, and soups without peas; Such positions at night, when you got

into bed Now sleeping upright, and now, perhaps, on your bead ; While your dinner—when starving and ready to die— Instead of your mouth, would come slop

in your eye ; Or else a great sea, if contrary the weather,

\\ on hi pop down, and sat usall swimming together,

Bui, never mind now, we’ro no longer afloat They brought us all safely ashore in a boat ; But we got such a ducking, oh, dear ! in the rain, That I thought wo should never have dried us again. Then, out in a, mighty great field wo were : sent

When a man and a boy camo and put up a tent; But one would not hold us —perhaps lour or five score— So they presently came back and put up some more, In which we were told wo would all have to stay— They won’t finish the barracks till we’re all gone away. And now, to describe, my dear Mickey, to

you, This beautiful city they call Tiinaru : -lust fancy a town that’s without any

streets, Where buildings at random, avo all that

one meets, With grass for the pavement, that’s rmt

very strange, And mud in the the winter By way of a change ; Where the ground’s so uneven—a deuce

of a bother— You can roll from one house right on top of. another , And so bad off for water —its true, by my

soul — That men, horses, and cattle, all drink at one hole ;

Whore no mun, could lie help it, would linger a minute ; While the Government Town, faith, there’s not a house in it. They’re an ‘ Irish Town’ here, whore the Paddies (sly elves) All settle together, and live by themselves; A Deal Town, all boatmen, old shells and what not; And a ‘ York Town,’ the lowest and worst of the lot. They tell me there’s streets, and they say there’s a square— Fine places, no doubt, if you knew where they were! A Town Hall and market place, too—do you mind ’em ? Laud Office and all, if you knew where to find ’em 1 A Park I believe -if it could but be found ; And a hospital, too, they’ve marked out on the ground. Faith, a mighty fine place is this same Timaru— That is, it will be in a century or two. And then for the houses, they’re half built of mud, Like they made them at Home in the time of the flood ; With a Church, though I hear very few hero have tried it— Thirteen was the most that was ever inside it; With three or shops, butchers, tailors, and cobblers, Two inns—where they serve you out very small cobblers— A baker (a Dutchman), a watchmaker, too, A grog-selling Yankee, a draper, a Jew. Then, the money you pay, and the things to be had, The dearest of dear, for the worst of the bad ; Damaged lots from all parts, though you must bo content, The profit, a little-five hundred percent; While, if you should grumble’Uie shopman will shout, “We don’t wanty’our custom; we’re better without,” This morning, while walking, I felt rather pale, So went in, and called for a quart full of ale Which I drank, laid down six-pence, and sauntered away, When old Sam bellowed out “It’s three shillings to pay.” By the powers, Mickey darling, ’twas only his wife— Pretty creature—that saved me from takin’ his life ; Throe shillings! you’d better be under the ground, And tobacco, 1 hear, sixteen shillings a pound ! While you daren't light a fire,if you’re ever so willing, For a stick likd a broom-handle costs you a shilling. You heard, my dear Mick, what high wages they’re giving, But you’ve not heard a word what it costs you for Hying ; And you’ve heard how poor follows their fortunes are makuig— When I hear suck tales told, faith it sets my heart aching, For though Government (generous) pays us (by heaven !) Six shillings a day, yet our living costs seven.

But it’s no use to growl, there’s a policeman to fight us, Who keeps showing his teeth, as though meaning to bite us, With a coat buttoned up that he’s frightened to stoop in. Then (oh, dear ,) sach a country—half mountain hall bog— First drowned in rain, then lost in a fug ; Where the wind (by the powers) blows the 1 hair off your head ;

Where you iv half roasted by day, and half frcezed hi y-mr bed ; Where 0110 jtfo.-si tiHy miles lo pick up a day’s labour, And at least live and twenty to .see une’s next neighbor, Or to call in a doctor, to save yen from dying, Or to do what’s required when one’s wife’s multiplying; Where the grass is like spears, b endanger one’s life And what doesn’t stab you cuts just like a knife ; Where your face is in lumps—a most terrib'e sight— With sandflies by day and mosquitoes by night;

Where travelling about of adventures is full : First chased by » pig and then tossed by a bull. Where the rivers (oh, dear !) you find when you come to ’em, The way to get over is just to go through

'Where you sleep in a. flax bush—faint, hungry and tired And wake in a fright, for the grass has been fired ! Where— no matter what —In Otago, I’m told. They’re infilling their hundreds and thou sands in gold ! I’ll clear out at once, ou the diggings I’m bent, Ten thousand will do mo—l’m easy content — With that in rny pocket I’ll »oun bid adieu To this beautiful island, and sweet Timaru.