It is sad pity the City of London broke off their bargain about the
Connaught waste land. Everybody was waiting for the fun, when his Civic
Majesty should pay his state visit to the Kingdom of Bogs that he had
added to that of Gog's. How the "boys" would have laughed to see the
whole procession stick fast in the mud, and the man in armour, weighed
down in his own scales, sink up to his helmet in the swamp. How the
"finest pisinthry" would have cheered to see the gilt coach, Lord Mayor,
Recorder and all, suddenly disappear in the illigant muck.
In compliment to his new subjects, the Emperor of all the Bogs and Gogs,
of course, would have ordered the faithful Birch (for spare the birch
spoil the "boys") to supply a "feast" replete with every Irish delicacy
of the season. The bill of fare for this most probably would have been,
_First Course_—Praties wid de bones in 'em; _Remove_—the smallest taste
in life of salt mate, to make the poteen come like a "rale blessin."
Then to win the hearts of his new subjects the King of Cockneydom would,
doubtlessly, have spoken in the richest brogue he could manage. At
Donnybrook he would have chucked all the girls under the chin and called
them "_Macrees_," and "_Astores;_" and delighted the men by flourishing
his shillelah and crying "Och! Goroo! Goroo! Tare an 'ouns will nobody
thrid on the tails of my gownd?" while, to complete the thing, he would
have directed the "Mace-bearer, darlint, to feel round the tint for the
bald hids of the Aldermin."
Realty our London _Mayors_ are almost as strange animals as the Irish
Bulls.
[Illustration:
"The Lord Mayors—Show—
And—The Lord Mayors Feast
—in—IRELAND"
]
[Illustration:
The Fearful, but probable ultimate effects of—feeding John Bull—upon
Foreign produce
]
[Illustration:
AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.
]