"PADDY MURPHY" ON THE BEER TAX.

Thames Star, Issue XI, 21 June 1880, Page 3

"PADDY MURPHY" ON THE BEER TAX.

Lambton Kay, Wellington, Bth June, 1880. Pon me conshiuso, the life is taiscd out o' me, so it is, wid Jobnny nncl bis parly. I tould Ihim some time ago that I'd have to sever me cooneckshun wid (him, bekays I like to be sefn in dacint company; but, bad scrau to thini, they won't let me give up me portfoley, so they won't. Be the hokey, I'm too softhearted, so I am, an' me eollaiges takes advantage o' me failin's. Ay coorso I know that the Ministhry couldn't stand a single day widout me, an' that's the rayson I was injooced to attind the cowcaas to con9idher the Major's Budjit. It's almost needless to inform ye that the raymodellm' ay the fineanshil statemint was jew to me. Ay they hadn't taken my advice about the rayimposishun ay the Beer Tax, faix the hole schaime o' taxashun would have broken down, so it would. I know me cousin Mick will feel mighty vexed at me ackshun in this matther, so I want ye to tell him that private frenships must always give way to the public good. The Major was a little narrous at first about adoptin' my suggestshun, bekays the Beer iVx was Mistber Balance's iday. "Luk here, Paddy allanah," ses he, " they'll he takin' me for a jackdaw in paycock's feathers, *so they will;" ses he. " Well,nivermind •i^kit, Major, me boy," ses I, " dacinter jackdaws thin you have sthrutted about before now in Borrowed plumes," ses I. The cow-oass was a most enjoyable inthertainment, an* we inlivened the politikal procaidings wid a little harmony. Most o' me collaiges are beautiful singers, an' whiniver they want a varse or two I jist sthrike them off a few local gims^ Whin we'd polished off a few bottles o' Dunviile's " craim o' tarther," the Major burst into milody as follows : —

Come all ye bould pathriot-frinds o the nation,

Ye swipers and fcvlpers jist lind me an ear 5 I've hit on a beautiful bit o' (axashun, I've tapp'd a fresh hogshead 0' Ballance's Beer. The flavour's improved since the brewer first

dhrew it, I give ye me word, boys, the liquor will stand; Sure I am the barman that knows, how to do

it, I've stuck our own label on Balance's brand.

The Majir's health and song was honored in flowin' bumpers, and there was a unanimous call on Misther Dick for a stare. At coorse, ye know that Tommy is frightfully bashful, an' it was wid grate difficulty that he consinted to warble forth the followin' lines. I've rote them in the silvery Dooric o' the North, just as he pronounced them :— Ma freens, the folk, I ken, in New Edinboro' toon —

An' I mak the observation wi' a tear— Hae throttles seasoned weel by quid wlr'sky

running doon, They dinna fash sac muckle aboot beer. Let the tax come into play, - Though we borrowed it from Grey. Ilk brewer loon may froon, and cry, " Na, na; it winna do; - Te winna. winna, Canna, canna,

Mauna tax dor brew." We called on Johnny, nest, for a ditty," but he's got sich a bad cowld in bis throat, that he caught at Leeston, we couldn't lprerail on him to sing. The Majir offered to become his substitute, and broke out in a fresh place, aB follows:—

Me Budjit is full to the top, John K**\, Begorra on it we wiU stand or fall,, I've borrowed the Beer Tax from Balance,

hooray! We may as well use up the measures of Grey; Or else we must mizzle too, now Or else we must mizzle too, now. There was thriminjous cheerin' whin the Major finished, and as he had the nixt call he axed Rollestori to favour the company wid a milody. I may inform ye that Misther Kolleston was the only one o' the Ministry who was opposed to the Beer Tax, bekays, he sed, it wouldn't go down in Christchurob, at all, at all. The followin' is his song :—

deb, dariints, I think if this cruel tax passes, The Pilgrims I love will be givin' me slops; For all me konstituents are fond o' their

glasses, An' faix they are likewise all partialto hops 5 Ay coorse I'm aware of our shortness of threa-

sure, But raiily I fancy this is a bad move j An' epaikin' to the pint, boys, they like a good

measure, But this won't go down wid the Pilgrims I

lore, But this won't go down wid the Pilgrims I love.

We couldn't injooce Misther Bryce to exercise his lungs, so we couldn't, an' so we broke up wid the followin' chorus :— Beer, boyß, Beer, no more of idle sorrow, Courage, true hearts, will beer us on our way j Hops to the force, no longer can we borrow From Mother England millions we can't pay-