Special Telegram.

Thames Star, Volume VIII, Issue 2958, 8 August 1878, Page 2

Special Telegram.

Lambton Kay, Wellington, July 25th. Be dad I've been laid up wid a sirare could for the last week, an' Mrs M. hat been puttin' bottles o' hot wather to mo feet an' bottles o' the crayther to me stomik ivery night, in ordher to work the could out. This evenin' I've been purusin' Misther Tinnyson's pomes as I sat be the hob, an' be gorra ther's some ay his illusions very dacent productions for a pote of his kaliber, for shure he's not a grate bard be any mains. Be gorra his title will tell ye that, for faix he's called the Pote Lower-rate, so he can't be a first-rale child o' the muses like meself. Afther I finished readin' that illigant lamintation ay his called " Locksley Hall," the iday inthered into me head ay improvin' on it, an' as we open Farlamint in the mornin', I sthruck off the followin' gim, which you must allow is a long way shuparior to the original:—• ■ TALKSLEY HALL. Molly darlint don't disturb mo, I^st wakjfi to-morrow morn, Laro me rest, an' if I'm snorin', enoriu' on me bugle hora, Whisper goftly with a " cooey," faix I want an early call, Shure I want to hear the Markiei blowin' " loud in Talksloy Hall.

Talksley Hall that down beyant there, houlds the blue books and the thraoks, An' the hollow knpty speeches, mighty fibs an'' ttle facts. Many a night, be gog, I've listened—listened ere I wiut to. rest, To the Major an' the Kurnil, an' the ginthry from the West. Little Martin K from Grreymouth, turns from polyticks to thrade, Now the Polytishian's garminta for a Button aren't made. There's a Thorns in his Bait, sure, Seymour George, a youth sublime— Beadher Wood, that Day-mos-thay-nus, talks no longer against time. Bowl the blankets round me, Molly, faix it's time that I reposed, Bring a cruiikeen o' the craythur, gist before me eyes are closed. Whia I dip into the bottle (shure I don't get on the spree) Faix I see aitch boy before me, M.H.B. and M.L.0.. . •" In the Session ivery spalpeen thriei to feather his own nest, In the Session ivery Spouther's strivin' for to . talk his best. In the Session, little Jay See spaiks tome tindher words o' love, Whin he's button-holin' mimbert in the lobbies up above." In the Session, 'pon me conshins, blarney flows from many a tongue, In the Session janial numbers sometimes get a little Sprung, In the Session whiskey-toddy, brings the blushes to V. P., An' it often clears the cob-webs from the throats o' Mao an' me. Tare-an'-ouuthers, don't we blusther up in • , Bellamy's at night An' we talk a thrifle loose, too, whin we gat a little tight. Oft I tuk a glass o' whiskey turnin* in mo glowin.' hands, Bailly I can tell ye, darlint, there they keep some dacint brands. 7 Many an evenin' from the binohes did I hear the Thribune fling Bould defiance at the land sharks au' the vile Piako ring. ■ Many a night we tapp'd the craythur, brought from home in stately ships, An', like mother's milk, the sperrits mellowed tongue an' throat an' lips. O, me Opposition oollaigues, Opposition now no more, We wor thin Provincial rebels, now we're loyal to the cor*. Betther still that we wor liein'— (Jack is not the same iu place - * As he is whin out of efice) —Comes the Sar> gint wid his mace. Cursed be the little jobs, that stain our oounthry in her youth, Cursed be the two faced dodges, putting bun* kum forth as truth. - Cursed be the cunning thrieksthers, erring from the honest rule, Cursed be the goold that buys up ivery knave an' ivery tool. Well—'tis well that I should blusther!—Sura the people's frinds we've proved, • Manhood suffrage is the question!—Shall we see that question moved ? Min me brothers, min the workers, it's our* selves can humbug you, Faix, begorra, we can't tell ye all thafcf we don't mane to do. Jist before division, darlints, that's the time for dacint sales, If the lobby walls could spaike, boys, faix they'd tell some purty tales. Through the House the coaxj^whispers, promise billets snug and wanr To the pathriotic mimbers who will vote in proper orin. Whin- the vile abuse is scathered, au' the epithets are hurled In the Parliment o' sham—the botheration o' the world. I to herd wid Harry Mandhers, I to bear the woes and pains— Listening to the Cutten bong mows (Frinoh), so fresh from Taieri Plains. Matrd, too, wid Misther Satan (not the gint from sultry c'ime), Listenin' to Sir Gilbert talkin' little rayson ah' less rime. Thin the Wairarapa Rabbi'v running round through Talksley Hall,. Piokin' up the crumbs about him, I can't stand at all, at a'l. Comes a vapour from the whiskey—shut the door, put in the bolt; I rnuet break to-morrow mornin' Hokeyteekey's green young colt. 1 All me mates — Sir George, the Markiss, Shrimski, Mac, an' Billy Bowe— Will be waitin' darlint, for me—call me early, I must go. Paddy Mtjbphy. —Saturday Advertiser.