Oh, “Harvey Duff!” oh, “Harvey Duff!”
If I’ve not heard you often enough,
May a Land League convention dance jigs on my buff,
And keep time to the music of “Harvey Duff!”
I was once with a bailiff serving writs,
My skull was cracked to spoil my wits,
For the bailiff escaped in the darkness dim,
And the mob malafoostered me for him.
But the case that circles my brain is thick,
It cannot be damaged by stone or stick,
And I’d rather submit to such treatment rough
Than be safe to the chorus of “Harvey Duff!”
Oh, “Harvey Duff!” oh, “Harvey Duff!”
Should I meet your composer some day in Bruff,
My bayonet into him with pleasure I’ll stuff
Till he’ll wish he had never learnt “Harvey Duff.”
When duty has called me miles away,
Though hungry and cold, I must needs obey,
And there wasn’t a Christian of either sex
Would give me a sandwich or pint of X.
I couldn’t coax dry bread and water
From father or son, from mother or daughter,
But I always could reckon on more than enough
Of that kind of refreshment called “Harvey Duff!”
Oh, “Harvey Duff!” oh, “Harvey Duff!”
Of you I get more than quantum suff,
And would to the Lord I could collar the muff
Who invented that blasphemous “Harvey Duff!”
I’m so destroyed I wouldn’t care
To go alone to rebel Clare,
And with a reckless spirit dare
To take a farm that’s vacant there.
I know the peasants bold would scatter
My four bones to the wind—no matter;
They’d wake me decent—no heart so tough
As to mock a dead peeler with “Harvey Duff!”
Oh, “Harvey Duff!” oh, “Harvey Duff!”
I wipe my eyes upon my cuff,
As I think that my soul will depart in a huff
To the requiem anthem of “Harvey Duff!”
A SEDITIOUS SLIDE.
WE learn from a special despatch which has been cabled via Shanghai and Yokohama to Britain’s representatives abroad that the demon of anarchy has again broke loose in Ireland, that the flood-gates of sedition have been once more thrown open, and the pestilential torrents of a whole lot of things are deluging society. We feel that a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary and a very fair acquaintanceship with the slang of nearly thirty States are utterly inadequate to express our tumultuous thoughts on reading the following touching epistle from Cornet Gadfly, who is at present attached to the suite of the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland:—
There is some dark plot afoot here to destroy the peace of mind and happiness of her Majesty’s defenders.