Epistolary.

Thames Star, Volume XIV, Issue 4374, 10 January 1883, Page 3

Epistolary.

Number Wan. Stone—The Mtjd Flats Miflther Editor ma boucbal,—

In the coorse ay me thravels I have been in many places so I have, an' begog I have come to the Thames. The lasht beautiful shpot I kicked me journalishtic dust aff, was in the Impoire City, an' faith I'm not ambeeshous to see it agin. But, be the holy-poker, I dhrapped into as party a toime as a sbcandal seeker could luk for. What a shockin' lot ©f bad things that comet has got {he credit ay, I'm inclined to think that me bould frind Misther Satan houlds some paid up shares in that ashtreennmmykle feenommynun Sfe'll persaive I'm a shcolar). The divii a a c in it, bat fur a big city like the Thames ifc holds its own in the crimiiiaK-alendbar, as a good commincement for the new year, wid most maytbropolises ar the same kind, .

Me onld frind Gordon has been turnin' thraitor as soon as he losht the mim'ry. ay the Scotch blend we used to do in the Tice-raygal office at the corner ay Sydney street an' Charlotte street in the gay Wullinton. Be the same token, that ould fox Grace, not the native man, but the bould Morgan Stanislaus, who lives acrass the shtreet, used to suck bis teeth whin he saw-from his front windy the crater dishappare, an' I'heard him wondher what the divil that Shaun was thryin' to do wid the son ay the Jook. In the mimdry ay the backshlidin ay me frind I have shtruck aff the followin', to the air of " Teddy, ye gandher " :—

Arrah, Arty me~darlin, Ter grdwlin'an'shnai-lin Don't hurt us the laisht, Ye cantankerous ba-isht! Wid yer cringin', an' shnivellfc', An' cryin', an? dhrivellin'j Thsr's divil a tashte . Of harm in ye, the laisht!

Before ye went home, sure, Acrass the say foam, sure, Ye thried all ye could To do harm, an' ye would Shpile the best ay the games, Vis, an' shlaughter the names A v good mm, but ye're crude ' An' unconscion'bly rude! At the time whin ye wint All our patience was spint— We could shtand ye no more, An' yer subjects all shwore Ay ye didn't retire — May the divil admire Them—but something in shtore, Ye'd have, been shown the door!

Yer yams and yer lies Tuk a few be surprise Whin they came out at lasht: Ye'd some frinds in the pasht, But we're done wid yer lordin, Me Tbould Misther Gordon ! Yer gone hard an' fasht— Vis, aside, ye've been casht!

t Ye thought that ye might, Wid yer mane, palthry spite. Whin ye got to the ear Ay Her Majesty dear, Let out all ay yer slandliers, An' hiss like all gandhers— But divil a fear, Ther's a frind ay ours near!

Yell hear more from me before I get me congee (furrin). I'll do the mines fur ye in a dayj or two. At prisent I'm aufferin' from say sickness, which was pursuaded be Johnny Walker's besht an^ me thrip from Auckland. ; Yores, curse-or-illy, ' ' Shaun'the Post.