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 fROM “fUNejH.” 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 HIS is a selection, with some additions and emendations, from tlie ’Any Pajjcrs which from time to 
 time during the last fifteen years have appeared in “ Punch.” 
 
 The intelligent reader will readily perceive that the main purpose of these pages is a satirical 
 one. That, perhaps, is the only adecpiate excuse for introducing to a polite public so slangy a vulgarian as 
 ’Any. It is to be feared that his vulgarity and his slang may .sometimes jar upon the sensibilities even of those 
 w'ho perceive the object of his literary presentation. 
 
 ’Any is a Cockney Cad. It has been attempted in his person to present the fundamental characteristics of 
 that rather ill-defined genus, its .salient features, its ruling passions, its most pronounced tastes, and its chosen 
 forms of utterance. What in the politer slang of the period wonld be designated the “true inwardness ” of 
 Caddishness in its Cockney guise the writer has endeavoured to set forth by a selection of traits and of terms 
 which, it is hoped, are sufficiently graphic and suggestive without being unbearably offensive. ’Any the individual 
 actuality is a difficult subject for uncompromisingly realistic portraiture ; but ’Any the type and the mouthpiece 
 mai/ perhaps be introduced to readers not too punctiliou-sly sensitive alid super-refined. Osrick w'ould sniff, 
 no doubt, did an ’Any come betw'een the wind and his nobility, but Hamlet might not disdain to “consider” 
 him, and Jaques might find him “ full of matter,” albeit but “a material fool.” 
 
 “The Cad in spirit, up or down” (and more especially up) “along the scale of ranks,” is the mark and 
 butt of these rambling rhymes. My real subject, indeed, is ’Arryism rather than ’Any. And 'Arryism is not 
 confined to the streets. Its spirit pervades only too plentifully the Race Course, the Betting Ring, the Sporting 
 Club, the Music Hall, many spheres of fashion, and some sections of the press ; it is often rampant in the 
 Smoking Room, and not altogether unknown in the Pulpit. How often has one heard ’Arry, in impeccable 
 broadcloth and W'ith unimpeachable h’s, vent his faithless philosophy, his cynical creed, his swaggering 
 politics; parade his polished selfi.shness, his airy arrogance, his satyr sentiment; manifest his thrasonic 
 but essentially petty conceit, his smartly phrased but intrinsically vulgar di.sdain, his much-vaunted 
 but brutally vicious maxims — not at a tavern bar or on a tram-car top, but at a City banquet or in a Club 
 
 B 
 
9 
 
 3 It f %• 0 6 tt c f 0 1* ^ 
 
 Smoking-room ! '^here are ’Anies and ’Arries, and the foul leaven of essential Caddishness works in different 
 natures in greater or smaller proportions, and with more or less of force. But the essential virus is ever the 
 .same; a tiling vulgar, vicious, vile ; revolting to taste, to honour, and to highmindedness. And the uncultivated 
 Cockney of the streets, the ’Any here .satirically sketched, is not the w'orst “ cad ” of them all. 
 
 As to ’Arry’s slang, it makes no preten.sion to be scientific. It is easily and ho.spitably eclectic. The slang 
 I have used I have, for the most part, heard ; have taken it in, not like Joey Ladle “ through the pores,” but by 
 way of the tympanum. ’Any likes smart jiatter and ‘■'snide” phrases; and little does he care whether their 
 ultimate origin be Cockney or transatlantic, whether they come from the worksho]!, the race-course, the back- 
 woods, the bar-parlour, the music-hall, the Stock Exchange, or the thieve.s’ kitchen. The .same word may have 
 at different times and from ilitferent lips dift'erent shades of significance. This should be borne in mind by those 
 friendl}'^ critics who have sometimes amused the creator of ’Arry by attributing to him a scientific and exhaustive 
 knowledge of Cockney slang. 
 
 As regards ’Arry’s diction, his pronunciation, his orthography, it is liardly needful, perhaps, to observe, that 
 no attempt has been made to be accurately phonetic. No possible combination of letters will really render 
 ’Arry’s pronunciation of .such words as “ lady,” “ game,” “ Charlie,” “daisy,” “ down,” or “ trousers.” To besprinkle 
 these pages with such orthographic combinations as “ lidy,” “goime,” '■ Choarlee,” “doisy,” “ daoun,” or “ trersers,” 
 ■would (in my opinion) make tliem a perplexing, eye-wearying, phonetic puzzle, without attaining absolute 
 orthoepical accuracy. It wmuld, of course, be quite possible to approximate more closely to ’Arry’s actual pro- 
 nunciation, but onh'^, I think, at the cost of making my ver.ses hideous to look at and hard to read. Rightly or 
 Avrongly, I have deliberately abstained from the attempt. 
 
 E. .). .MILIJKEX. 
 
 Odoifr, 1892. 
 
 PUBLISHER’S NOTE. 
 
 In addition to the lllnstvations orujinnllij attached to some of these ^''Arnj 
 Ballads” as theij apjteaved in the of “ Punch,” this selected collection has been 
 
 enriched hy a nvmber of other pictures drawn from ‘'Mr. Pnneh’s” extensive (fallery. 
 
 These include some by John Leech, Charees Keene, Lini.ey Sambourne, George 
 DU Maurier, Harry Furniss, J. B. Partridge, and other “Punch” Artists. 
 
 They are intended to be comprehensive in their scope, and are, cdl of them, more 
 or less illustrative of '’Arry and ’ Arryism as here defned ; and the possession of them 
 will tend to male this popular issue of the Ballads an attractive repa'csentation 
 ’ARRY in “Punch.” . 
 
‘•^’JVrrp” from "‘BHmcl).” s 
 
 ON the: ’ouiday se:ason, 
 
 an f pintle from 'Arry^ in London., to his particular chum, Charlie, condemned to unwilliny retirement “ in rural parts. J 
 
 ' 1- 
 
 D ear charlie, 
 
 ’Ow are yer, oM ’crniitl ’Ere’s ’oliclay season 
 i come romul, 
 
 ' And I’m off on the gay galoot somewlieres, and that pooty 
 ’ soon, you be bound ; 
 
 , But afore I make tracks for dear Pariy, or slope for tlie 
 
 j Scheldt or the Rhine, 
 
 My ’art turns to turmuts and you, a’.id I feel I must droji 
 I yer a line. 
 
 •2 
 
 ’Ope you’re well ! ’Ow I wish, dear old man, I could tuni on 
 the tellyphone ’ere. 
 
 And give it you wot the scribes call viver vochy. Ink-slinging, 
 I fear. 
 
 Isn’t ’Any’s perticular meetier. ’Owevcr, ’ere goes for a try ; 
 And when ’Any is fair on the job he’s a winner, or else 
 he’ll know wy. 
 
 3 . 
 
 When fate took you away to the turmuts, 1 missed you, old 
 parducr, no end, 
 
 For our likings in lotions and larks is the same, and it's 
 that makes a friend. 
 
 Luck’s all I But to cart you off’ suildent to Chawbaconshire 
 and cold scran. 
 
 Fresh from Barnsbury Bark and town’s barneys — I call it 
 'ard lines, dear old man. 
 
 4 . 
 
 < Jood (Jracechurch Street, ’ow do you stand it ? 1 know 7’d 
 go fair off my chump. 
 
 With no sights for my evening trot round but a pigstye, a j 
 pond, and a pump ; j 
 
 No pub but a sand-parlour’d slianty devoted to sing-song | 
 and swipes, | 
 
 No pals but a pack of old joskins a-siicking long church- j 
 
 warden pipes ! j 
 
 5. I 
 Oh ! 1 sec it as plain as Brown’s boko ! No lamps arter ! 
 
 dark, no gay shops. 
 
 No whelk-stalls to light up the corners, no paper-boys, 
 cabbies, or cops ; 
 
 Not a street-show or shindy to stir yei', not even the savoury 
 sniff' 
 
 Of a sossage-and-ingun shoj) ! Scissors ! the thought makes 
 me feel all a-squift'! j 
 
 G. I 
 
 (-’all me (’ocknc}', old chap, if you want to, or label me | 
 “gutter-bred cad,” 
 
 As some sniffy old geesers arc give to — though that aint 
 your form, dear old lad — 
 
 But for Life good old London’s a Eden no palm-spotted 
 parrydise beats ; 
 
 And if there’s a Love lasts yer life out, that Love is the I 
 Love of the Streets. 
 
 7. ( 
 
 1 
 
 You gave me a invite this season, I know, my dear buy. | 
 Well, yer see ] 
 
 It’s this way. The green tooral-looral’s all right, but it I 
 ’ardly suits Me ! | 
 
 AVhcii you’re well in the swim, my dear Charlie, 'along o’ the ? 
 
 reglar elect | 
 
 You must do as they do, for a swell, like a Bobby, must f 
 stick to his beat. j 
 
4 
 
 ’JVrxn;) fxonx 
 
 ! 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 t 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by G. du Maurier. 
 
 8 . 
 
 It’s cxpcctcfl, old iiKUi, it’s expected. Jest fancy me slinging 
 my 'ook 
 
 For old Turmntsliire, going ont nuttin’, or bobbing for fish 
 in a brook ! 
 
 Not (lev wn'iigle, dear boy, 1 assnre yon. Conld stars of 
 -Mayfair be content 
 
 To round upon Uonic or the Higgi, and smug up in Surrey 
 or Kent ? 
 
 P. 
 
 No fear ! Cherry orchards is pooty, and ’ops ’as admirers, 
 no doubt ; 
 
 But it’s only when sport is afoot as the country's worth 
 fnssin’ about. 
 
 Ytair toff likes the tnrmnts or stubbles when ])onltry is 
 there to be shot, 
 
 Blit corn-fields and eabbage-beds, Charlie ? M'ay oh ! tliat’s 
 all middle-class rot. 
 
 10 . 
 
 There wos a time, Charlie, I own it, when Hiehmond ’ml do 
 me to rights. 
 
 And a fortnight at -Margit meant j iim-ynm to look fur and 
 dream on o’ nights ; 
 
 1 was inncrccnt then, a young gccser, too modest for this 
 world, dear boy ; 
 
 Didn't know you’d to do wot was proper, and not what yon 
 think you’d enjoy. 
 
 11 . 
 
 Ah I Noihhs oUiges, old pardner, and great is the power of 
 “form”; 
 
 Bads may rail at “the clarses ” like ginger, but all on us 
 likes to lie “ warm,” 
 
 And mb shoulders with suckles more shiny. AVy, life’s 
 greatest pulls, dontcherkiiow. 
 
 Are to look up to sparklers above ns, and down on poor 
 dufifers below. 
 
 12 . 
 
 ’Ardly know wich is Inmmiest, swelp me I It's nuts to ’ook 
 on to a swell. 
 
 Like I <lid at a I’rimrose meet lately with sweet Lady Clare 
 Caramel. 
 
 AVhcii her sunshade shone red on my face, mate, me givin’ 
 my arm through the crush, 
 
 ' AV'y I felt like Along Blong in the mornin’, and looked like 
 a bride, one big blush. 
 
 l;!. 
 
 Noddy Spriggins, he spotted me, Charlie, — him being left 
 ont in the cold, — 
 
 And to see him sit down on his topper, and turn off as yaller 
 as gold, 
 
 Wos as good as a pantcrniime. Oh! If there’s one thing 
 more nicer than jiie. 
 
 It’s to soar like a bird in the sight of the flats as can’t git 
 on the fly. 
 
 I 
 

 ~5i5aCCa6s from "^*uncd.” 
 
 14 . 
 
 Blit I’m wandering, Charlie, I’m wandering'. ’Oliday form 
 is my te.xt. 
 
 Last year I done Jersey, old pal, and I 'ardly know where 
 to go next. 
 
 I should much like to try Monty Carlo, and ’ave a fair 
 flutter for once. 
 
 But I fear it won’t run to it, pardner ; my boss is the 
 dashdcst old dunce. 
 
 1 , 5 . 
 
 ^Vont rise me to three quid a week, the old skinflint I 
 Though travelling’s cheap. 
 
 It do scatter the .stamps jest a few, if you don’t care to go on 
 the creep. 
 
 j Roolette might jest set me up proper, hut then dontchcr- 
 I know, it might 
 
 j And I fear lest I'd come back cleared out, if my luck didn’t 
 i land me a ^lot. 
 
 It). 
 
 Oh, dash them spondulicks ! J’he pieces is all as I wants 
 for )ntj ’elth. 
 
 And then them darned Sosherlist jugginses ’owl till all’s 
 blue agin Wealth. 
 
 It gives me the ditherums, Charlie ; it do, dear old man, 
 and no kill. 
 
 AVy, they’d queer the best pitches in life, if they kiboshed 
 the Bower of the Quid ! 
 
 17. : 
 
 There’s Venice again ! 1 could start this next week with j 
 
 a couple o’ pals ; | 
 
 But yer gondoler’s ’ardly my form, and I never wos nuts on ! 
 canals. 
 
 Waggles says not like the Grand Junction, as cree])s 
 
 sewer-like through our parks ; 
 
 Well, AV aggies may snift’; I’m not sure, up to now, mate, as 
 Venice means larks. 
 
 18 . 
 
 AVell, there’s lots on ’em left in old England, that’s one thing 
 and so, failing Rome, 
 
 AA'ich 1 fancy runs too much to ruins, perhaps I may try 
 “ ’Ome sweet ’Onie.” 
 
 Only fair to give khigland a charnce, and a patriot party 
 like me 
 
 Ought to paternizc sometimes the “ Right little, tight little 
 Hisland.” D’yer see ? 
 
 li*. 
 
 ’Ire a ’orso and trot round the AA'est Em!'? Go a-boating 
 at Slosh ville-on-Slime 1 
 
 AVith a party of proper 'uns, Charlie, the latter, with lotion, 
 is prime. 
 
 It’s jest wonderful 'ow many peojile, and ’ow much rare fun 
 3’ou can pack 
 
 Into one of them Sloshville four-oar ’d ’uns, with lots of good 
 tcnqier and nack. | 
 
(5 
 
 ^iictl*ra6c — l^hxnci}," 
 
 20 . 
 
 There's Miirgit. St me think 
 it’s too dressy, hut lor ; 
 that’s no hohjeet to me. 
 
 f ’old as a gent should jest 
 dress ///.r a gent, if he /n 
 by the sea. 
 
 My nuitter is, spot where 
 you’re landed, and tog 
 up aceordin’, old man, 
 
 But the gentleman always, 
 my pi]. pin. A (look 
 couldn’t better that plan. 
 
 21 . 
 
 If I’m out in the ’Tglaiids, of 
 eoiirse I go in for (Jlcn- 
 garry and cheeks. 
 
 A true 'I'am o’ Shantcr jest 
 suits me : I’ve one of the 
 nattiest necks. 
 
 Long and slim, and with 
 l)lenty of hapjde ; that 
 sets off all speeches of ’at, 
 
 But you earn't cany off a 
 Scotch bonnet to rights if 
 ycr nape runs to fat. 
 
 But if I locdv stylish I’ight i 
 out it’s in togs of the i 
 mountaineer sort, ! 
 
 With tight kicksies and knap- j 
 sack and crook. Then I’m i 
 ready for climbing or sport. ! 
 
 Ah S[)ort ! A few 'ours with 
 the rid)bits, or day with 
 tlic ’arriers aint bad ; 
 
 M hether popping or ])ounding 
 best suits me. I’m clashed 
 if I know, dear old lad. 
 
 23 . 
 
 ’Unting blokes is a little bit 
 ’aughty, csiieshly thc’unts- 
 men and such. 1 
 
 if you Jo make a bit of a slip ! 
 they’ll jest sc|ueleh yer as 
 near as a touch. ; 
 
 I Jo ’ate being snubbed by ^ 
 a lacky, or ’owlcd at by 
 mcnyals and snobs ; 
 
 And so — till 1 got my own 
 gee-gee — the ’nut’s ’ardly 
 one of VII/ jobs. 
 
sJi5an‘a6 
 
 -fx’om “WuncB." 
 
 21 . 
 
 I do freeze on to Toffs — 
 if they’re li affable, 
 whether in coinp’ny or 
 sport, 
 
 but ’ang it, I carn’t stand 
 the style of tlie silent 
 and stare-ine-down sort. 
 
 They look hover yer, hnn- 
 der yer, througdi yei’, 
 hut never (jnite at yer. 
 It’s rum. 
 
 I’ve tried it myself, jest 
 for fun, like, but some- 
 how, dear boy, it won't 
 come I 
 
 I’m too mueh the true 
 gent, I emagine. Some 
 toffs can be awfully rude. 
 
 Olio day, on a steamer I 
 fortied, and snnri-il. 1 
 wos tired but not 
 screwed, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by J. P. Atkinson. 
 
 \1 hen I Moke there was 
 twenty a staring, while 
 one wos a sketching my 
 phiz ; 
 
 1 1 tvos beastly bad form — 
 if you ask mf, but they 
 seemed to think it good 
 biz. 
 
 26 . 
 
 ^Vell — Charlie, I can’t 
 (piitc determine ’ow 
 outing’s ’ll foot it this 
 year, 
 
 Whether ’tis to bo Margit 
 and fizz, or Loo Smith, 
 Hopping Forest and 
 liecr. 
 
 V’.’ith Loo and my new 
 Concertina, in reglar 
 Lank 'Oliday form. 
 
 If worst . comes to worst 
 there’ll be fun, and no 
 doubt I shall weather 
 the storm. 
 
 No, I’m not on for Turmutshire, Charlie, not this time; 
 and now you know why. 
 
 Carn’t 3'er jest turn the tables, old hoystcr, and c mie for a 
 bit of a H V ? 
 
 Cut the chawb.xcons, run iiji to London, jine me, and we’ll 
 pal off to Larry ; 
 
 And if yer don’t find it a ’Oliilay Skylark, wy, never trust 
 
 ’ A R R Y . 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by G. du Maurier. 
 
8 
 
 “’Jlin'iy’ ^ari‘a6s from “^‘unc6.’' 
 
 AT A FANCY FAIR. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 ]. ; 
 
 D ear charlie, 
 
 You mu.'it cut the “ turmuts ’ and come up I 
 to Town, my dear boy, 
 
 Loudon's gettiu’ more lummy eacli day ; there’s sech oshuiis 
 to see and enjoy ! 
 
 And now yon can mix with tlie toffs — regular toppers I 
 mean — on the chcaj), 
 
 It’s a sin to go wasting ycr days amongst chawbacons, 
 ’taters and sheep. 
 
 2 
 
 If you'd only bin with me lar.st niglit ' I was “in it,” old 
 man, and no kid, 
 
 •\s a chap of my form can be in it, if ready to blue arf 
 a (piid. 
 
 Twas tlie “ Feet of the Season,” and ’Arry, T tell yei', old 
 pal, was all there, 
 
 ith a claw-’ammer coat a tar .Masher, stiff collar, and ’igh- 
 scented ’air. 
 
 You'll ’avc 'card, of the Fisheries, Charlie, the Ken- i 
 sington Show. M'ell, larst night, | 
 
 They’d a Feet in them Cardens, old flick, as was some- • 
 think too awfully (piite. 
 
 Fairy I.,and not a i>atch on it, (,’harlie, ( remornc 
 reglar out of the run, 
 
 For pootiness, Ro^'al l’rinces.ses, swell } um-yum, and 
 general fun. 
 
 i. 
 
 Ten bob and snap togs took me in, and 1 cl)ummed j 
 with the very clett, | 
 
 Which, for wot I call “ Hafl'able Mix," give me j 
 this ’Aughtykultooral Feet. ^ 
 
 ’Twas the Charity lay, doncherknow, and that covers ! 
 
 a lot, as a rule, j 
 
 Rut the Fanciest Fair ’avc bin at to ikh little 
 game wos a fool. | 
 
 : 
 
 } 
 
 Heal jam — in all senses, my boy, for the crush wos a 1 
 caution to snakes, — 
 
 Rut the lights and the ladies — .sec7t sxvells ! — coloured 
 lanterns, and magical lakes ! 
 
 “Jest like What hoi” a Countess remarked. Mot 
 quite fly to ’er. meaning. But lor 1 
 They’ve their slang, I suppose, these Big Bob.s, — jest 
 as n-e say, “ I’ll give ycr wot for ! ” 
 
 t). 
 
 Lady Duft’ering — bully for her, mate 1 — apootiei- paicel who’ll 
 wish ?— I 
 
 ’Ad a Lucky Fish Pond — with no water — and eharg-ed ns I 
 “ a shilling a fish.” 
 
 And we hangled with meat-’ooks for toys, me :iud Wales 
 — he’s a brick — on the banks ; 
 
 Till I guess both our piles of loose silver ’ad gone in “all 
 prizes, no blanks.” 
 
 .Vrter wich, being dry, 1 made straight for the and 
 
 wot do 3’er think ? 
 
 Well, I ain’t took aback by a trifle, but, .Vissors 1 it did 
 make me blink. j 
 
 When I called for a cocktail, my jiippin, I didn't precisely 
 cxpeck 
 
 'I'hat the barmaid who ladled my lotion would be — Princess 
 iMary of Tcck ! 
 
Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
10 
 
 ^ian‘a6 4> fx*om 
 
 
 s. 
 
 Arf-aTcrown for tlie tipple wos stiff, but 
 f/ie feeliity, niy boy, tbei’e’s tlie 
 nick 1 
 
 It wos wuth all tlieocbro, I tell yer. 1 
 lionlcred another ’nn (piick. 
 
 Arter that mere ( 'bineses came cliea]), 
 though the iSlarquis Tseng serving- 
 out tea 
 
 AY as as funny as tiggers on tea-chests ; 
 but then, I’m not imts on Bohea. 
 
 Well, 1 cani't tell you arf on it, 
 Charlie, time, paper, and memory 
 fails. 
 
 The rose-bud enclosed you will value, — 
 twas bought orf the Princess of 
 ^^'ales ; 
 
 A\’liich, if she's not tlie pick of the 
 basket, — But there, 1 don’t wish to 
 intrude, — 
 
 There are some who’re sech pure and 
 liigh-pitched ’uns, that even to praise 
 ’em seems rude. 
 
 10 . 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by John Leech. 
 
 13 . 
 
 ’Arry fancied hisself, I essure you, ’obnobbing along o’ sech. AVhen I set my.self down on a chair, shiny ’at and crutch- 
 Nobs ; cane all (). K., 
 
 As at home as a cat in a cream-shop. And wy not ? They And look round at the bevy of beauties all swarming like bees 
 pocket our bobs — round Bob Splay, 
 
 ((.'leared me out to a tanner') — they wait on us, finding it AVith cigars, button ’olers and barskets, all ’arter Bob’s 
 well wuth their while ; bloomin’ arf crowns. 
 
 And there’s many a barmaid in London more ’orty and Thinks I, it is tin or no tin, as makes all on us nobles or 
 hu])pish in style. clowns. 
 
 11 . 1 11 . 
 
 Fancy Fairs do me proper, old pal ; they arc barneys 1 don't dest fancy that slo])c-shouldcr'd snob, with his pale spotty 
 never miss, face and still’ collar, 
 
 AA'hen a poot}' gal bites off the end of yer weed, it’s as good Fair washupped by seven she-swells, at the price of a e.\try 
 as a kiss. arf-dollar ! 
 
 I never feel nicerei-, Charlie, nor part with my pieces more 
 free. 
 
 Then when Fm whei'C reglar swell gals take to shop in the 
 sperrit of sjiree. 
 
 12 . 
 
 Bob grins like a dashed Cheshire Cat as he fingers his 
 ])Ockets with pride. 
 
 Oh, a regular boundci’, is Bob, with no hend of cock-sure- 
 ness and side. 
 
 1 . 0 . 
 
 The-}’ shakes off the hice so completely, the stand-offish stiu’C But they don't seem to mind, not a mosscl, the slim straight- 
 is chucked up ; nosed Bcautie.s, dear boy. 
 
 They will smile in the face of a cad with the mug of a It’s a sort of kick-ovcr-the-traccs, a thing as all females 
 tarricr pup, J 
 
 As though they could love 'im for hever. Oh, Charity : (lit tired of stiff swelldom, I fancy, prim ways of their ball- 
 is a fine thing ; i rooms and parks, 
 
 Ami if life was one great Fancy Fair — v'hich it ain’t --’Arry’d And so cotton to daisies like hus as is fly to snide patter and 
 ’ave a fair fling. ' larks. 
 

 fi'cin "'3i‘uncft.” 
 
 11 
 
 Ki. 
 
 Tliey can read in our lieg es wot we thinks on ’em ; Swells 
 do a china-blue stare 
 
 AVith their goosberry goggles, and how with a sort of 
 hortoinmyton hair. 
 
 ’Arry looks at ’em straight, as gals like to he looked at, a 
 smile and a wink 
 
 Makes ’em blush, but you bet they won’t round on you, not 
 while they collar yonr chink ! 
 
 So ‘•’Ow ’appy could I be with heether — or loth!'' 1 
 remai'ks with a smile. 
 
 They didn’t .suy much, but their loejJcs meant, “ Oh ’Any, 1 
 </o like your style ! 
 
 19 . 
 
 I could read ’em like print, 1 cssurc you. I kept ’em a bit, 
 ’anging round 
 
 For the cash, jest to give ’em a chance, and they thanked 
 me, the dears. I’ll be bound. 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 17 . 
 
 If a blue-blooded Beauti’, with lips like red scaling wax, 
 bites off the end 
 
 Of 3 'er arf-crown ’Avannah, dear bo}’, she treat yer, of 
 
 course, u.s’ // friend, 
 
 And if you sAo/ff J call ’er “ my dear,'’ as yuu Avould to a 
 barmaid, why lor ! 
 
 She ’as fur too much savvy to frown in the freezc-mc-hup 
 style as strikes hor. 
 
 l.-^. 
 
 Two fair toppers in cream-coloured frocks 'clpe 1 yours truly 
 to inuttins and tea. 
 
 Thinks I, / won’t show partiality ; each on 'em tumbles to 
 me ; 
 
 Lor, they likes it, my pippin, they likes it. Yus, Charity 
 covers a lot. 
 
 But ’taint (dl with yer Fancy Fair sirens, who'rc artful and 
 np to wot's wot. 
 
 20 . 
 
 So why should >re chuck on the bashful 1 Scch Haffable 
 Alixes all round 
 
 Do dollops of good, my dear boy : and they suit me right 
 down to the grotmd. 
 
 Splendid splurge, and no error, this Feel, — couldn’t do the 
 trick l)etter in Parry , — 
 
 And a Duchess to draw him his bitter comes awfully yum- 
 yum to 
 
 ’ARRY, 
 
12 
 
 ^5art‘a6s from 
 
 ON 'IGH IWt. 
 
 I reelly don’t sec, barrin’ tin, that they very 
 imich differ from hii.s, 
 
 And the Hrimstonitcs dmdffless would say that, 
 as Swells, tliev’re if anythink, was. 
 
 Of course that’s all co])ybook cant ; life is not 
 worth a cent without larks, 
 
 ^^’ich women and wine, my dear ])al, have bin 
 always the knowin’ one’s marks ; 
 
 There is some does it under the rose, on the 
 very extremest Q. T., 
 
 r>ut as the Oreat bounce patly says in his song, 
 “ ^\’e all do it I ” ver sec. 
 
 That’s wot 1 call life ; true feelosophy, plain 
 common sense, and no paint ; 
 but iMuggs, our top card at the crib — you know 
 Muggs-- who’s a bit of a saint. 
 
 Swears Socierty’s got a bad fit on, a sort of low 
 ]\lusic-Hall fever. 
 
 If he ain't a ’umbug at heart, may yours truly 
 be blowed tiiiht for hover. 
 
 He says that “ the cynical swell and the low chuekling 
 cad are jest twins. 
 
 That the sniggering satyr who gloats o’er the talc of 
 Society’s sins, 
 
 lEAU CHAbLIK, tl'C loathsomest growth of a time when our manhood and 
 
 I’ve jest bin a readin’ the spiciest case of the day, faith h.ave run low. 
 
 And as in your chawbacon parts you’re as good as clean out hose heroic ideals to perch on the top of the dunghill and 
 of the play, ^ crow.” 
 
 I send ycr the j)apcrs by post. You will find it a proper ! G. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 1 . 
 
 old lush. 
 
 Though they tips it so precious werbatim, it might make a 
 mealy ’un blu'^h. 
 
 2 . 
 
 / don’t often turn on the pink, and the rosy ain’t much in 
 your line, 
 
 but them Hupjjcr Ten Toffs, my dear boy, do api«ar to 
 bo flarin’ it fine ; 
 
 Don’t tumble to all of his patter, or twig arf the drift of his 
 lingo. 
 
 • He swears that a selfish fast fool is the stuff for your genuine 
 •lingo. 
 
 And holds it'don’t matter a toss if you finds it swell-togged 
 at a Club, 
 
 Or in seven-bob gridiron bags at the bar of a Hislington 
 pub. 
 
^at‘fa 6 ^ from 13 
 
 Yuhljali ! Pious pap o’ that sort ain’t tlie grub for sech ’ot 
 ’uns as me. 
 
 Ill course yer don’t feed a Spring clucking on hoysters and 
 Soda and B. ; 
 
 But men o’ tlie world, mate, like us, as is game for a lush 
 or a laugh, 
 
 Ain’t percisely the speeches of bird to be caught by sech 
 wiiite-chokcr chatf. 
 
 9 . 
 
 I don’t pan out on poets myself, they’re a specie as gives 
 me the ’ump, 
 
 But I’m told as tlie pick o’ that sort are not nuts on soft 
 pap and the pump. 
 
 Wine and Women’s their motter. I’ve heard, from Ilauakreon 
 down to Tom Moore, 
 
 Bill}' Bolsover give mo that tip, and he’s snide, though a bit 
 of a bore. 
 
 8 . 
 
 If a Toff has the run of the till and the gift to go in for 
 ’igh jinks, 
 
 Small blame to his ludship sez I, only wish I could nobble 
 the chinks. 
 
 Jest wouldn’t I go in a buster, and keep it hup mornin’ and 
 night. 
 
 With the pick of the lush and the ladies ? Oh ! wouldn't I 
 just 1 — not a mite ! 
 
 12 . 
 
 They arc “noble, and nood and anti([uc,” Billy Bolsover 
 says, these she-swells. 
 
 Wot play up to the moony young mashers, and tog for the 
 ball-room like hdles. 
 
 Means the bare-armed old nnvvies you meet spread out pink 
 in a theatre stall, 
 
 Wich tlie wonder with me, my dear Charlie, is wy they 
 pint togs on at all. 
 
 10 . 
 
 A old tentmaking party 
 in Persia, he tells 
 me, one Omar Khay- 
 
 Says as Wine, Song, 
 and Women are yum- 
 yum, the rest is all 
 tubthumjicr’s 11am. 
 
 Whether Bolsovcr’s kid- 
 ding yours truly’s a 
 (piestion to wich I 
 ain’t fly, 
 
 B it if that’s poet 
 Omar’s opinion why 
 bully for Omar 
 sez I ! 
 
 11 . 
 
 lie did know a thing 
 or two, Charlie, as 
 rhyme-fakers freiiucnt 
 does not, 
 
 d’ho kyind ’art wcrsus 
 eorrynct kibosh is 
 mostly their game, 
 and that’s rot. 
 
 d’iic topsawyers take 
 off the cream of the 
 milkpan of life, my 
 dear boy ; 
 
 There is only two hands 
 in life’s game, them 
 as labour, and them 
 as enjoy. 
 
14 
 
 
 a rta 6 ^ from '' 15Pxtncl5. 
 
 7? 
 
 13 . 
 
 A stccplo-nob\l call, with a chump on him jest like a sea- 
 sick hahoon, 
 
 If lie only sports climonds enougli, will tiiid pooty swell 
 maidens to spoon. 
 
 At the Opera see ’o\v old ’ags and hald hutfers seem fair in 
 the run I 
 
 Tisn’t Beauty cu' Yinith, my dear hiyv, it’s the Ochre as gives 
 yer the fun. 
 
 Don’t it show ’ow the Classes are mixed when de Veres and 
 de Vavvyseurs play 
 
 Before hookies and clerks, and gits bit on, and no one has 
 nothiuk to say ? 
 
 16 . 
 
 It does a chap proud to observe ’ow his tastes and his notions 
 agree 
 
 With those of the pals of a I’rince in the matter of spoonin’ 
 or spree ; 
 
 14 . 
 
 Brain ? I.ook at the moon-calfy mashers as prowl in Bark 
 Bane three by three, 
 
 At Humbrella and Cigarette drill I Are thet/ clever, like 
 3’ou, mate, or me ? 
 
 Wy a mush-melon pie is a king to ’em. But if you’ve 
 jiieces and style 
 
 You don’t need a heart in yer breast nor a ha’porth of 
 brains in yer tile. 
 
 ir>. 
 
 I went to a Tennis INIatch, Charlie. Set-to between two 
 tojipiug gal.‘-'. 
 
 “ Co it ’Arriet ! " I shouts, “ Wire in Emly I ” Oh, ve 
 cheered ’em, me and my jials. 
 
 And, since ladies of title seem game as young shop-gals for 
 liipior and larks, 
 
 I should like to go in for blue blood, and ’ang out near the 
 Clubs and the Barks. 
 
 ir. 
 
 So Bm nuts on these tales of ’igh life as comes out in the 
 Court of Divorce, 
 
 Where sometimes, when they bile it too ’ot, even swells 
 come a cropper, in course ; 
 
 But they don’t seem stuck-up in their sprees, and i/iat beats 
 any sermon a sight. 
 
 For “ breaking down barriers, and droring the bonds of 
 Socierty tight.” 
 
^art‘a6 from 
 
 IS. 
 
 This may bo a “cyni- 
 cal” time, bnt it 
 suits mr I'ight down 
 to the ground : 
 
 He was never so well 
 
 to the front or sf) 
 
 1 
 
 iCill, 
 
 thoroughly “ in it ” 
 
 
 all round. 
 
 i 
 
 In poiitic.s, morals. 
 
 
 and manners, our 
 
 
 “form” must be 
 surely 0. K. 
 
 Since it’s that of the 
 \'ciy front rows of 
 the toppingest toffs 
 of tlie dav. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by G. du Maurier. 
 
 19 . 
 
 So Charlie, old chum- 
 my, let’s ’ope as tliis 
 “ Music-Hall fever ” 
 may last. 
 
 And the different 
 classes be jined in 
 tlieir love of the 
 s[)icy and fast ; 
 
 M’hat a bloomin’ 
 ilillenyum, hay ? 
 IVhich I trust .as 
 its adwent mayn’t 
 tarry. 
 
 Meanwliilc I mean 
 mixin’ it ’ot, and no 
 error. 
 
 Yours spiffisldy, 
 
 ’A R R Y. 
 
Hi “ *’ ^^at*Ca6s fi'om 
 
 ON ’IGH ART, 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by J. P. Atkinson. 
 
 1 . 
 
 D ear charlie, 
 
 The picters you sent me wos proper — my 
 style to a toucli. 
 
 I’ve luul ’em hung up in my den, and my p;ds like the style 
 of ’em much. 
 
 That gal in Turk togs is a screamer. Wot eyes ! and her 
 figger ! — well there ! 
 
 She’s as spicy as tliem there Swell pliotos, as set arf the 
 town on the stare. 
 
 2 . 
 
 That’s Art, my dear boy, and no gammon ; but lots as now 
 goes by that name 
 
 Is no better tlian riddles to me, and I’m blowed if I’m Hy to 
 its game. 
 
 “Wot of that, festive bloater?” sez yon. “’'faint the sort 
 for your kidney, old pal.” 
 
 Right you arc, but I’ve l)in in it lately, wus luck, all along 
 of a gal. 
 
 3. 
 
 She’s a kind of a sort of third cousin, in town on a visit to 
 dad : 
 
 So I’ve had to come the star-walker. She \i& got the 
 rummiest fad ; 
 
 Exhibitions and galleries and that is her mark. Jest emaginc, 
 old man ! 
 
 Stone images, pictens, engravings, and sech like artistic cold 
 scran ! 
 
 4. 
 
 'fhe things that I’ve seen this last fortnit ! I ’ate exhibi- 
 tions like sin ; 
 
 Yawn-shops every one ; but then Loo has prime eyes, and 
 her guv’nor has tin. 
 
 And so I’ve bin doing the rounds, and, though I max^n’t be 
 much of a judge, 
 
 Seems to me, for a chap up to snuff, your ’Igh Art is jest 
 out-and-out fudge. 
 
 Elevating the masses be blowed !, Wot’s the good of your 
 blooming Antcek ? 
 
 A lot of old scarecrows in blankets, barefooted, and big in 
 the beak. 
 
 I would rather a jolly long sluA sec the poses or kladamo 
 Twoswords, 
 
 And I ventured to say so to Loo, who declared she Mas 
 shocked at my M'ords. 
 
 : 6 . 
 
 ' Stone gals ain’t my mark, not a mite ; only fit to stick up 
 in the squares. 
 
 Or ’old lamps in a klusic-’All lobby. 'flic stone-chippers 
 give theirselves airs ; 
 
 But sandals, and swords, and rum togs, all atwist and 
 chucked on anyhoMq 
 
 Though they might have been nuts to the Greeks, ain't the 
 right sort of thing for us now. 
 
 7. 
 
 Sech togs are a floorer to me. 1 asked Loo how she'd eotton 
 to M'ear 
 
 A rig-out like Venus or rh\'sie, or some sech a name as that 
 ’ere : 
 
 (Loo rhymes it to Crikey, 1 fancy. Ain’t Sikey a neat sort 
 o’ name?) 
 
 I Of course she just sniffed and shut up, but it nailed her, old 
 man, all the same. 
 
 8 . 
 
 I like limbs as is limbs, my dear Charlie, and faces as ain’t 
 got the chalks ; 
 
 A fig for your Classical attitoods, M-obbles, and slommocking 
 Midks ! 
 
 Slantindicular saints on the goggle, and mooncy young 
 M'omen in grey. 
 
 With their muslins all tM-isted tight round ’em don’t elevate 
 I must say. 
 
 1 
 
'58atfa6s from 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier* 
 
 9 . 
 
 Loo says I’m a I’eglar Philistian ; I fancy she means that for 
 chaff. 
 
 Goliali wos of the Cliang inches, and I ain’t five foot and a 
 half, 
 
 But if he preferred the “ Pcrlice News ” to picters of gals in 
 a faint. 
 
 Set me down as a pal for Goliah in that respect, blowed 
 if I ain’t. 
 
 10 . 
 
 When I see them old fogies in marble, I think wot a lark it 
 ’ud be 
 
 To paint ’em sky-blue, or dab on a merstarch, on the 
 strictest Q. T. 
 
 You remember the spree we once ’ad, when they showed us 
 some blooming old Greek, 
 
 ’Ow I waited till no one was looking, and just chipped my 
 name on his cheek ! 
 
 11 . 
 
 12 . 
 
 Low Life don’t \vant lifting, old oyster, leastways, Charlie, 
 not in the lump. 
 
 Your philanterpist bleats out that bunkum, but then he is 
 mostlj' a pump. 
 
 Take the 'oxms in London, my pippin, and “ lift ” all their 
 basements aloft. 
 
 Wouldn’t Babbylon be wrong hend uppards. Yer Sosherlist 
 mu&t be a soft. 
 
 13 . 
 
 There must be some bcittom rows, Charlie, or where would 
 the top rows come in 1 
 
 This yer levelling talk ’s all shenanigan, slopwash, a shame 
 and a sin ! 
 
 If the topsawvers don’t put the squelch on philanterpist pap 
 pooty soon 
 
 There will be such a all-fired bust-up the big-wigs 'll be 
 blowed to the moon. 
 
 14 . 
 
 Down-east, Bethnal Green wa}', they tell me, the parsons 
 and painters combine 
 
 To pal oft' High Art and Low Life. It’s a blend as I beg 
 to decline. 
 
 Even Loo couldn’t tempt me to give up a Sunday to Mister 
 Burne-Jones, 
 
 Seein’ ’ow as yours truly ain’t partial to goggles and chunky 
 cheek bones. 
 
 Give the bottom-rows ’baccy and beer, there's no ’arm, not 
 l)crticklcr, in tliat. 
 
 Keeps ’em cool and contented-like, Charlie. A workman 
 well lushed shies his ’at j 
 
 For the Queen and the Br’i’sh Constitooslmn ! But men 1 
 
 i 
 
 like that Morris, old friend, } 
 
 Mix ’Igh Art and Sosherlist kibosh, — and that ’s a dashed 
 dangerous blend ! | 
 
 D 
 
18 
 
 u •> 
 
 '58atTa6s from “'I'mtcf?. 
 
 99 
 
 15 . 
 
 Tlic “ Perlice News ” 
 gives ])icters cnougli 
 for tlic I'iast- lender, 
 j ou take my tip ; 
 
 Jack tlie Pipper don’t 
 snuisli Law and 
 llordcr, altliongli he 
 may give ’em the slip. 
 ^^’llilst the Working 
 Men jiattcr in pnbs 
 ahont Jack, over lasli- 
 ings o’ lush, 
 
 I IJiirns and Mann may 
 1 bow-wow as they like, 
 
 I J.,al)our won’t take the 
 
 l.and with a rush. 
 
 K). 
 
 Ihit (jlrcck gods on 
 the scoot artcr sca- 
 nymphs, and scch 
 paregorical fudge. 
 Fogs Bethnal (Ireen 
 brains and Bow hin- 
 tellect, leastways if 
 I’m any judge. 
 
 (Illustration from “Punch.”) 
 
 But nashernalizing the 
 land, mate, or any- 
 think else as means 
 “ nick,” 
 
 Low artfulness linked 
 with ’Igh Art, — ah ! 
 they freeze onto that 
 mighty quick 1 
 
 17 . 
 
 See the slopperty swells 
 dawdling round at 
 tlic Burlington all on 
 the sjirawl, 
 
 Or see me on the grin, 
 Bethnal Orecn way, 
 along o’ some smudge 
 on the wall ; 
 
 See old mivvies vith 
 ] irog-1 lask cts pro wl ing 
 about a South Ken- 
 sington room. 
 
 And you’ll see as ’Igh 
 .\rt jest means bore- 
 dom as ’umbuggin’ 
 jirigs tries to “ boom.” 
 
 Illustration from '‘Punch," by C. Keene. 
 
“’Jlrr)?” from “'Bfuncl).” 
 
 Illustration from “Punch, ’ by C. du Maurio.-. 
 
 ]S. 
 
 Do girls cure for tliat ^ onus of i\lilo, or swells for that 
 ’eadless Ilyssus ? 
 
 Xo more, if they’d only own hup, tliau the poor Working 
 Man and ’is missus ! 
 
 And was all very well for a lark; and “'Igh” Art for the 
 Moh’s much the same. 
 
 Tot-nhce Hallei’S are imts on the notion, but there ain’t 
 no in that game. 
 
 Loo did try to gammon 
 me, straight, hnt she 
 sometimes yawned- 
 into the fur 
 
 Of her muff, Charlie, on 
 the and I think 
 
 ’Arry .Scheffer bored 
 ht-r / 
 
 19 . 
 
 1 remember when Japan- 
 ese fans and umbrel- 
 las -was sold in the 
 street, 
 
 1 came out as a cheap 
 Intense .Swell. Ah ! 
 it stirred up the 
 street-boys a treat, 
 
 l)Iu3tration from “Punch,” by G. ciu Maurier. 
 
 20 . 
 
 The masses won’t get 
 ‘‘elevation” from 
 things as they don’t 
 understand. 
 
 Wot !(V' want in a pictcr 
 is flavour and “ fetch,” 
 and 3'ours give it me 
 grand. 
 
 Loo may talk, but the 
 whole Classic lot ain’t 
 worth one of your 
 screamers from J\irr//. 
 
 And there’s heaps of the 
 same way of thinking 
 as 
 
 Yours obligutedly, 
 ’ARRY. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
20 '5BaCCa6s from “'g*unc^.” 
 
 ON WOMAN’S RIGHTS. 
 
 Tlicy called it a Liberal Club, sort of cellar-like luuidcr- 
 ground den, 
 
 A\’itb two hundred cheap canc-bottoiucd chairs, and three 
 fidgetvdooking young men — 
 
 That's all when / hentered — a-shifting the seats and the 
 platform about, 
 
 Till the peo})le began to pour in, when the three looked 
 alarmed, and poured out. 
 
 5 . 
 
 But they toddled back aider a bit with a curly old joker 
 in tow. 
 
 And the three Womaids Bightists, in bonnets, who perched 
 on a form in a row. 
 
 Like three fowls on a fence ; and Old Ringlets, who looked 
 like a bantam in breeks, 
 
 Ti])ped the mag with as much bellows-blowing as though 
 Illustration from “Punch," by H. Furr.iss. Jic’d ftCO toilgues ill llis chccks. 
 
 1 . 
 
 D ear charlie, 
 
 I’ve bin to a lecture ! Now lectures, 
 you know, ain’t m// mark ; 
 
 Too slow and dry sawdiisty mostly, but this ivos a 
 bit of a lark. 
 
 'Woman’s Rights and that moonshine, my pippin. 
 
 Thinks I, “There’s a barney on here,” 
 
 And whenever there’s hens on the crow, ’Arry’s 
 good for a hinnings, — no fear ! 
 
 Needn’t tell you viy views on the subjeck. The 
 petticoats want kcepin’ down. 
 
 Like niggers and Radicals, Charlie ; but spouters 
 in bonnet and gown, 
 
 ir/t/7e then haven’t got votes, are amusing. They 
 can reel it off and no kid. 
 
 Though I hold their right line is to marry. Idle 
 taters, and do as they’re bid. 
 
 • 3 . 
 
 Oh, /'d snffrige ’em I Slap agin Nature, ycr know, 
 wrong end Imppanls, in short. 
 
 'I’o a man as is really a man it’s disgustin’ I But, 
 looked at as sport, 
 
 ’I'liis yere Shrieking Sisterhood lay ain't ’arf bad : 
 though the duffers down there 
 
 Who voted ’em rig](t — ten to one I — made it 'ardish 
 to keep on one’s ’air. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by C. Keene. 
 
21 
 
 “’Jlrfp” ^affads front “^unc^.” 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 6 . 
 
 ( ,'lioek 1 Bath chaps ain’t 
 in it, iny pippin ! I 
 gave him chy-ike once or 
 twice, 
 
 But lie najiped me as sliarp 
 as a needle, and all the 
 room roared, w Inch warn’t 
 nice ; 
 
 And the fidgety three sung 
 out “ Horder ! ” as though 
 they meant “ hices or 
 stout ! ” 
 
 And a rum little ginger cove 
 heyedmeas if he’d a liked 
 me chucked hout. 
 
 7. 
 
 Then the birds on the fence 
 fluttered down one by 
 one, and each cackled 
 ’cr bit. 
 
 I am not nuts on argy- 
 ment, — fogs me. They 
 spun it off slick, I 
 admit ; 
 
 Women’s votes wos to be 
 like ’op bitters, and put 
 us all square like a 
 shot. 
 
 Didn’t understand ’arf 
 what they said, but of 
 course it was all bloom- 
 ing rot. 
 
 Wy, we carn’t keep the 
 mil on ’em now 1 Wot 
 with ink-slinging, hart, 
 and all that, 
 
 ’J'licy’re a-besting us fast, 
 my dear boy ; wus than 
 Dernians. Yes, that’s 
 “ where’s the cat.” 
 
 And HOW' they’re conni- 
 vering round arter 
 votes, I sez “ Wide- 
 oh’s ” the word, 
 
 Or us men won’t bo in it 
 at all, and 1 arsk ycr 
 if that ain’t absurd ! 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by J. P. Atkinson. 
 
22 
 
 '^afCa6s front “'^unclx” 
 
 I 
 
 9 . 
 
 Oil, they’re regular scorchers, these women, when fair on the 
 job, don’t yer know. 
 
 'riiere was one or two chaps in the meeting as did ’ave a hit 
 of a go,— 
 
 Tried the lofty pooh-pooh, but lor’ bless yer, them feminines 
 ehojipcd ’em up fine. 
 
 And old Corkscrews he chaffed ’em no end, and the honly 
 fair “ brayvo ! ” was mine. 
 
 10 . 
 
 Tdttle Ginger kep fussing with papers, and dodging all over 
 the shoj), 
 
 And a tierce-looking party, all elbows, was like ways a deal 
 on the ’op. 
 
 Jhit the ladies was easy as mittens, and put it that mealy 
 and mild, 
 
 That I felt I shoidd jest like to smash ’em, but couldn't. 
 It did make me wild. 
 
 11 . 
 
 That’s the size of it, Cliarlie, old man, and they show so 
 much mettle and pace. 
 
 We must keep ’em well ’andicapped down, or I’m blowed if 
 they mayn’t land the race ! 
 
 12 . 
 
 Made me mad to see fel/ers a-backing ’em ; one in pertickler 
 I saw, 
 
 A sewcre-looking bloke, with a beak and black ’air, like a 
 genteel jackdaw. 
 
 Woman’s Rightist right down to his boots, and he limbed 
 little Ginger like fun, 
 
 ’Cos he didn’t appear quite so sound on the goose as he 
 ought to ha’ done. 
 
 13 . 
 
 No, this lot didn’t shriek or wear gig-lamps; but jest a'Ou 
 ptnagine a wife 
 
 As could argue your ’cad off like they could ! It adds a 
 new ’orror to life ! 
 
 'I’alk of justice, and [)etticoat cultchcr, and trainin’ up 
 women o’ sense ? 
 
 Bosh ! The fillies arc tired of the paddock, and mean 
 })opping over the fence. 
 
 Two of ’em ?fa-5 Missises too! M'ell, If ever /’m temptcil to 
 marry, 
 
 ’Taiii’t no AVoman’s Rightist, j’ou bet, as will nobble 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 ’ A R R Y. 
 
 Illustration from " Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
U 9 
 
 JVrr^” '53aCCa65: from “'g‘unc6.” 
 
 23 
 
 AT TH^ S^A'SID^. 
 
 I’m tis I'ed a bloomin’ tomarter already, and 
 talk about stodge ! 
 
 Jest you arsk the old mivvey as caters for me at 
 the crib where I lodge. 
 
 Kiuidjer Seventeen, Paragon Place, is my diggings, 
 mate, floor Ahimbcr Thi ee, 
 
 From the right ’and bow-winder’s oft'-corner you 
 ketch a side-squint of the see. 
 
 AVlihe stucco and hemcrahl sun-blinds, trailed u[> 
 with a fine “ Glory ” rose. 
 
 And a slavey as pooty as pic, if it weren’t for the 
 smuts on her nose. 
 
 r> 
 
 Oh, I’m up to the knocker, I tell ycr ; fresh ’errins 
 for breakfast, old pal. 
 
 Bottled beer by the bucket, prime ’bacca, and oh, 
 such a scrumptious young gal ! 
 
 Picked ’cr up on the pier, mate, permiskus, last 
 Wensday as ever wos. Whew ! 
 
 She would take the shine out of some screamers, 
 I tell yer, my pippin, would Loo. 
 
 Dropped ’cr ’at at the feet of yours, truly, and ’Arry, of 
 course, was all there. 
 
 Her ’airpins went flyiu ! Thinks I, that’s a jolly fine sarmple 
 of ’air ; 
 
 ’Ow are you, old oyster 1 Tm doin’ the briny. As black as my boots, and as shiny, and oh ! sech a ’cavenly 
 dear boy; smell. 
 
 Got my usual fortnit, ycr know, as I makes it a pint to “’Elio! Miss,” sez I, “while you’re ’andy, there’s no need 
 enjoy, for Mister Rimmel.” 
 
 Things is quisby at ’ome, and they pi’essed me to chuck up ‘‘ 
 
 my annual spree. That nicked ’cr, my nibs. It’s the patter as docs it, of 
 
 And stand by to look arter the mater who’s down with course with good looks ; 
 
 rheumatics. Not me ! : chap as can gab, as you’ll find by them 
 
 2. Libery books. 
 
 Relations are that bloomin’ selfish it fair gives a feller the Take Weeder, my boy, or Miss Broughton ; you’ll see if a 
 sick. feller would tackle 
 
 I’m jest tidy myself, flush of tin, with no end of a thunderin’ A feminine fair up to dick, he ’as got to be dabs at the 
 “ pick,” cackle. 
 
 And now I’ve a chance of a outing to keep myself up to the 
 
 And that’s where I score, my dear Charlie. Lor bless yer, 
 
 I’m to stay in the doldrums at ’ome ! It’s too meich of ; i^^crc, 
 
 a screamin’ old lark, Loo was as cosy as cousins, tucked up in a nook on 
 
 3. the shore. 
 
 No, Charlie, boy, self-preservation’s the fust law of Nature, Gives yer ’oliday outing a flaviour, the feminine element 
 yer know ; do, 
 
 So I jest slung my ’ook like a shot and came here for a bite Although, ontiy noo, dear old pal, it’s a tidy stiff drain on 
 and a blow, j yer “ screw.” 
 
 D 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 1 . 
 
 EAR CHARLIE, 
 
24 
 
 44 9 
 
 
 
 aCfa5s 
 
 frol^^ “ '3‘unc^.” 
 
 ’ Owsomcver, flare up and blow “exes” is always my 
 motter, yer see : 
 
 And I never minds blueing the pieces pnrwided I gets a 
 good s[)ree ; 
 
 Wich is jest wot I’m ’aving at present. You’ll say, at this 
 pint, I expect, 
 
 “ ’Arry’s doing the Toff as per usual.” To which, mate, I 
 answers, “ /vVr-rect ! ” 
 
 10 . 
 
 Loo can do the l}’dy, 1 tell yer, and ang me she do know a 
 gent ; 
 
 Sez she spotted me fust day 1 huukal, and knew by my 
 boots and my scent, 
 
 1 wos none of yer tup’ny hontsiders, with whom she ’as 
 never no truck. 
 
 Yon should jest see her toss ’er black ringlets ! Fair dotes 
 on me ; isn’t it luck ? 
 
 11 . 
 
 She’s a stoodent of Life, too, my Loo is. She sez, “’Arry, 
 dear, jest look ’ere. 
 
 Here’s a j)icture by Leech ; sea-side fashions, eighteen fifty 
 eight is the year ; 
 
 Look at them zebra stripes, simply ojus! and then, ’Arry, 
 jest look at you. 
 
 That ’ll show ’ow our tastes is improving ! ” And ’ang it, old 
 jial, ain’t it true 1 
 
 12 . 
 
 That’s me in jdaid dittos and rounder, a-talking to Billy 
 Bolair, 
 
 As I met on the pier ; natty cove, a hit ’Ebrew in boko and 
 ’air. 
 
 But compare ’im with Leech’s young Zebra, or ’im with the 
 peg tops and pipe, 
 
 With ’is ’hand on the neck of that ’ack ! No, thank 
 ’cavens, we’re not of that stripe ! 
 
 13 . 
 
 I (lid meet a pal on tlie })ier as hobjected to taking my arm. 
 
 But I scored off him neatly, I reckon, and laughed when he 
 took it up warm. 
 
 And 1 see him took down by the nigger most ’appy the vci y 
 I next da}’. 
 
 And if me and Loo didn’t chi-ike ’im— well, then there ain’t 
 I nothink to pay ! 
 
 14 . 
 
 { Socierty’s right, my dear Charlie, — Sociei'ty always is 
 right,— 
 
 I Gladstone’s gab about “ masses and classes ” is all tommv 
 I rot and sour sj)itc. 
 
 ■ There is only one class worth consid’riii’, and that is the 
 I reglar /hit-class ; 
 
 And the chap as don’t try to get into it — well, he is 
 simply a ass. 
 
 ^ - 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by John Leech. 
 

 
 a t* £ a 6 s f voni 1). ” 
 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 Socierty se/, “ When 
 the Season is 
 hover, slide off to 
 the Sea ! 
 
 It’s the jdacc for a fair 
 antinnn barney. ’ 
 And shall 1 dispute 
 it? Not me. 
 
 ’Arry knows his tip 
 better than that, 
 Sir. Yonr juggins 
 may ’ave ’is own 
 whim 
 
 About bicycling, boat- 
 ing, or wot not ; I 
 mean bein’ well in 
 the swim. 
 
 16 . 
 
 Lor, it warms a 
 cove’s heart dont- 
 cherknow, put his 
 sperrits right sla[> 
 on the rise. 
 
 Wen the Niggers are 
 dancing a break- 
 down or singing 
 “Two Lovely 
 Black Eves.” 
 
 onT' 
 
 Illustration from " Punch," by John Leech. 
 
 'i’o see lardy Toffs 
 and swell ladies, 
 and smart little 
 gals with no fuss. 
 
 ’.Y.iging round on 
 the listen and 
 snigger as though 
 they wos each one 
 of h»s. 
 
 17. 
 
 They likes it, my 
 lad, yus they likes 
 it, tlie IMnsic Hall 
 patter and slang. 
 
 Yet some jugginses 
 kick at mi/ lingo 
 as V 111 (jar ! Oh, let 
 ’em go ’ang. 
 
 Take a run. Mister 
 Mealymou t h e d 
 (h-itic, go home 
 and eat coke, poor 
 old man. 
 
 All Toffs as h Toffs 
 share my tastes ; 
 we are built on the 
 very same plan. 
 
 E 
 
Illustration from “ Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
tn" p ■ ’ a Cr a 6 e from 
 
 
 ^27 
 
 18 . 
 
 Wots the liodds if yer rides in e kerredge, or drives in a 
 douljle-’orsc <lrag, 
 
 Witli a ’orii and a lend concertecna and lots o’ prime prog in 
 tlie bag 1 
 
 It is only a (piestion of ochre, tlie principle’s ditto all 
 round. 
 
 It is larks by the Sea we all seek, and they suits ns all down 
 to the ground. 
 
 19 . 
 
 But now, I am off to the Pier, Charlie. Boat’s coming in 
 from Boolong, 
 
 And I wouldn’t miss that not for nothink. The wind blows 
 a little bit strong. 
 
 And there’s bound to be lots on ’em quisbjg some regular 
 goners, dessay ; 
 
 And it fs sech a lark to chi-ike them, the best bit o’ fun of 
 the day. 
 
 •20. 
 
 Old jokers in sealskin caps, Charlie, drawn over their poor 
 blue old ears, 
 
 Pooty gals with complexions like paste-pots, old mivvies 
 gone green with tlie ipieers ; 
 
 Little toffs with their billycocks raked, jest to swagger it off 
 like yer know. 
 
 But with hoptics like bailly-biled whelks. Oh, I tell yer it’s 
 all a prime show. 
 
 Charlie! It bangs Arthur Boberts, and makes a 
 chap bloomin’ nigh bust. 
 
 I must take a ’am sanwich to munch. Wen a cove ketches 
 sight on it fust, 
 
 And I sings out, “ Hi ! who’ll ’ave a fat ’uni” to see that 
 bloke shudder and shrink. 
 
 And go gooseberry green in the gills, is too lovelj', mate. 
 Wot do you think ? 
 
 'I'l. 
 
 Aii'I all this, with the larks on the sands, niggers, siiotting 
 the bathers, — that’s spiff! — 
 
 Sails round, going bobbing for whiting, and singing at night 
 on the cliff. 
 
 Not to mention rides out, as per posters, and quiet flirtations 
 with Loo, 
 
 1 was (juietly asked to chuck u]i ’long o’ Mother’s rheu- 
 matics ! Yah boo ! 
 
 28 . 
 
 ’Arry’s not sech a mug, I ossure you. Sweet Home is 
 dashed fiildledcdcc. 
 
 /’m not nuts on yer dahliy domestic, it spiles a smart chap 
 for a spree. 
 
 Ony sorry my time’s neaily hup ; but, as fur as the ochre 
 will carry. 
 
 Do the briny with swells like a swell, is the tip of 
 
 Yours scrumptiously, ’A R R Y. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by C. Keene. 
 
28 
 
 from “'g'uncft.” 
 
 
 'ARRY’S OUTINGS. 
 
 ♦ ♦ 
 
 1. ON THE RIVER. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 1 . 
 
 D ear ('harlte, ; 
 
 ’Ot wciilher at last ! | 
 
 liat a bloomin’ old slusbcr j 
 it’s bin, 
 
 Tliis season ! But now it do look 
 as though Summer wos goiu’ 
 to licgin. I 
 
 E]) to now it’s bin muck and no J 
 
 ciror, fit only ibr fishes and | 
 frogs, I 
 
 And has not give a chap arf a i 
 
 chance like of sporting ’is » 
 
 ’oliday togs. 
 
 Scch a sweet thing in mustard and 
 jiiiik, quite res/tei-f/tay I tell 
 3 'ou, old man. 
 
 Two quid’s pooty stiff, but a buster 
 and blow the expense is mj' 
 plan : 
 
 A\ ith a stror ’at and jmgfjeree, 
 Charlie, low shoes and new 
 mullierry gloves. 
 
 If 1 didn’t jest fetch our two gals, 
 it’s a ])ity ; — and wasn’t they 
 loves? 
 
 We'd three chaps in the boat besides 
 me, jest a nice little ])arty of ! 
 six, t 
 
 But they didn’t get arf a look in 1 
 ’long o’ me ; they’d no form, j 
 
 them two sticks. I 
 
 [f you’d seen me a settin’ and : 
 
 steerin’ with one o’ the shes on 
 each side, | 
 
 You’d a thought me a Turk in j, 
 
 check ditters, and looked on 
 your ’Any with pride. 
 
“ '^affa 6 « from “^'uncB.” 23 
 
 Illustration from "Punch," by A. C. Corbould. 
 
 4. 
 
 \Vy, wo sec a swell boat with three ladies, scch rippers, in 
 crewel and buff', 
 
 I (If 7 jinlled arf a ’our in their style it ’ud be a bit more than 
 enough) 
 
 Well, I tip|)ed ’em a wink as we passed and sez, “ Go it, my 
 beauties ! Well done ! ” 
 
 And, oh lor ! if you’d twigged ’em blush up you’d a seen ’ow 
 they relished the fun. 
 
 I 
 
 i I’m dead filberts, my boy, on the river, it ain’t to be beat 
 for a lark. 
 
 And the gals as goes boating, and punting, is jest about 
 “ ’Any, his mark.” 
 
 If you want a good stare, yon can always run into 'em — 
 accident quite ! 
 
 And they carn’t cliarge yer nothink for looking, nor put you 
 in quod for the fright. 
 
 6 . 
 
 i Pooty gals do look prime in a boat, either pulling or doing 
 
 j a flop. 
 
 I I see two making sails of their skirts, and I tell you they 
 
 I made that skiff ’op. 
 
 Oh, 1 think that to lounge in the stern, with yer pipe, while 
 two petticoats pull. 
 
 Is about as near ’eaven as don't matter, — pervided the 
 beer bottle’s full. 
 
 Lazy isn’t the word, my dear pardner, it’s simjdy volupshns, 
 it is. 
 
 As to tiring the pets, wy, they like it ; they know it is very 
 good biz. I 
 
 They washnp ns, Charlie, they washnp us, come like a bird 
 to our nods, ' 
 
 And wait on ns, with labour or liquor, as ’Ebc did once i 
 on the gods. 
 
 ^ 1 
 
 Same thing, in a manner of speaking ; a chap in a god to a ‘ 
 
 gal i i 
 
 And tliey know if they want to look fetching, or show off a 
 foot or fal-lal. 
 
 If they git you tucked up on the cushions, whilst they sit 
 before you and scull. 
 
 And 3 'et they can’t ’ 00 k jou, and land you, their tackle 
 m/in( be a fair mull. 
 
30 
 
 ^al‘l*a6x^ fx‘^om 
 
 Tlic backwater bizness is jiiojicr, old pal, for a skulk or a 
 spoon. 
 
 Or to tmu-tum ycr banjo a bit if the ladies is game for a 
 toon ; 
 
 Onlj jest you ware swan’s nests my pip[)in. We droj)[)cd 
 upon one ; narrer squeak. 
 
 The birds walloped us so with their wings that my biceps 
 wos sore for a week. 
 
 10 . 
 
 "Ow we eliivied the couples a-spoonin’, and bunnieked old 
 fishermen’s swims. 
 
 And put in a Tommy Dodd Chorus to Methodys practisin’ 
 hymns ! 
 
 d’heu we pic-nic’d at last on the lawn of a water-side willa. 
 Oh nn’ ! 
 
 When the swells sees our bottles and bits, I’ve a notion 
 some language ’ll fly. 
 
 12 . 
 
 We'd soon emptied our three-gallon bottle, and Tommy he 
 pulled a bit wild. 
 
 And we blundered slap into a skiff, and wos jolly near 
 drownding a child. 
 
 Of course we bunked off in fhe scurry, and showed ’em a 
 clean pair o’ legs, 
 
 I’ullin’ np at a waterside inn where we wont in for fried ’am 
 and eggs. 
 
 10 . 
 
 We ktq> that 'ere pub all-alive-ho, 1 tell ycr, with song and 
 with chorus. 
 
 To the orful disgust of some prigs as wos ]»rogging tw'O 
 tables afore us. 
 
 I do ’ate your hushahye sort like, as puts on the fie-fie at 
 noise. 
 
 ’Ow on earth can ycr spree without shindy ? It’s jest wot a 
 feller enjoys. 
 
 n. 
 
 1 1 . 
 
 It was on the Q. T., in a nook snugged away in a lot of old 
 trees, 
 
 I sat on a bust of Appollcr, with one of the gurls on my . 
 knees ! 
 
 Cheek, eh? Well the fam’ly was out and the servants ■ 
 asleep, I suppose ; 
 
 For they didn’t ’ear even our roar, when I ehipjicd orf the j 
 hi mage’s nose. I 
 
 Quaker-meetings be jiggered, I s.ay ; if you’re ’appy, my boy, 
 give it tongue. 
 
 I toll ycr we roused ’em a few, coming ’ome, with the comics 
 we sung. 
 
 Ilcncoring a iirimc ’un, I somehow forgot to steer straight, 
 and we fouled 
 
 The last ’cat of a race — such a lark ! Oh, good lor, ’ow they 
 chi-iked and ’owlcd. 
 
fx-om 
 
 ‘ ’JVr X' X} ” a C I'a 6 
 
 
S-2 
 
 44 
 
 ^^^all'acSs from “WuncB. 
 
 79 
 
 2. ON THE ROAD, 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by L. Sambour. e. 
 
 2 . 
 
 ’Twas a l.it of a bean-feast, yer see, and our lot tooled it down 
 in a drag. 
 
 Fonr-in-liands is tlio fashion jest now with the pick of 
 Society’s bag. 
 
 Oiir toffs has bin took with a taste to turn lianiinytoor 
 Jarvics — nun fad ! - 
 
 And a meet of the ('. <\’s a picter as .swell a.s can easy be 
 ’ad. 
 
 3 . 
 
 I often trots down to the Park for a twig when they muster, 
 my boy. 
 
 Sech toppers a-tooling sccb teams is a thing every Gent 
 must enjoy. 
 
 And then the tine females ! Oh, Charlie, a Marcherness 
 mounting the box 
 
 Is a ’eavenly sight, and no error, to blokes as ain’t Radical 
 blocks. 
 
 Bin at it again. 
 
 Oh, I kain sech a ’ot 
 ’im all round ! 
 
 If there is any fun to 
 the fore, you’ll find | 
 ’Any all there. I’ll ' 
 be bound. 
 
 ’'Pwas the River last 
 week you’ll remember; 
 this time, my dear 
 boy, it’s the Road. 
 
 Loi»! I tumbles to every 
 fresh fakement as easy 
 as go and be blowed. 
 
 IPe wosn’t quite up to that form, but we ’ad a most nobby 
 turn-out ; 
 
 Sech cattle, my pippin ! — four Greys ; and our Whip, though 
 a little bit stout, 
 
 Wos as clever a card as you’d drop on, he ’andlcd the rib- 
 bings to rights. 
 
 And to see him negotiate corners was one of the loveliest 
 sights. 
 
 5 . 
 
 I know a good ’oss when I see one ; it isn’t for nothing, old 
 chum]). 
 
 As I’ve parted so free to the coachic.s, and artfully put on 
 the pump. 
 
 Lor, the wrinkles and tips I ’ave lauded a-’bussing it to and 
 from town ! 
 
 Though them tuppenny smokc.s do run uj) when one’s funds 
 is a little run down. 
 
^a££ab^ from 
 
 33 
 
 6 . 
 
 Bus-drivers is nuts on havanners and partial to goes of rum 
 ’ot ; 
 
 But it’s wuth it, my boy, yus, it’s wutli it, to know to a 
 mossel wot’s wot. 
 
 There’s few of the pints of smart cattle but wot T am fly to 
 at once. 
 
 And a Briton as ain't a bit ’ossy I holds is a mug and a 
 dunce. 
 
 7 . 
 
 I ’ad the box-seat, mate, oh, trust me ! I squared that like 
 pie with our Wliip, 
 
 Which he gave me the tip contidcatial-likc over our very fust 
 nip. 
 
 Says he, “You’re like B. and M.’s Matches — you nfrikes on 
 the box, Mate, you do.” 
 
 And he gives a slight crook with his elber, and doubled his- 
 sclf nigh in two. 
 
 8 . 
 
 That’s a way as most coachies 'avc got, you might think 
 they wos took pooty bad ; 
 
 But it’s merely purfessional, Charlie. Oh ! wosn’t them 
 other chaps mad 
 
 When they twigged ’ow he spotted yours truly ? He give 
 me the ribbings to ’old, 
 
 AVhile Tom Blogg, who declares he drives tandem, wos simpl}" 
 left out in the cold. 
 
 Viy, I spotted a lot of old gents tooling ’ome t’other night 
 from the “ Ship,” 
 
 And a-busting their cheeks in a style as seemed nuts to their 
 smart-looking Whip. 
 
 11 . 
 
 Ours said I’d a lip, and no error. I know it got thundering 
 sore. 
 
 Coach-’orns is a little bit brass}', and orkurdly small in the 
 bore. 
 
 But cave in and cut it? Not me ! No, T jest blew away 
 like old boots. 
 
 While the driver, my mouth being busy, obligingly blew my 
 cheroots. 
 
 12 . 
 
 Tommy swore he was kidding me proper — 7iie, Charlie ! I 
 like the idear. 
 
 But two ’ours of continual bellows do make a chap dizzy and 
 queer. 
 
 Leastways I suppose it wos that as perdooced sech a rummy 
 effect. 
 
 That at last things got raythcr mixed up, and the finish I 
 carn’t recollect. 
 
 13 . 
 
 But I know that it came on to rain, and next morning I 
 woke looking pale, 
 
 With a lump on my lip, and my face all streaked green with 
 the dye from my veil. 
 
 There was six cigar-ends 
 
 9 . 
 
 Then the ’orn-tootling, 
 Charlie ! Oh, scissors ! 
 jest didn’t we give 
 ’em tantivy ? 
 
 To the wrath and dis- 
 gust, I'll lay tuj)- 
 pence, of many a 
 drowsy old mivvey. 
 
 We all ’ad a turn coming 
 ’ome, and the grunt- 
 ings, the wheezings, 
 and shrieks. 
 
 Must ’ave given the 
 road such a rouser it 
 won’t be forgotten for 
 w'eeks. 
 
 10 . 
 
 Row ? Noosance ? t)h, 
 nonsense ! "Wot’s that 
 to a chap when he’s 
 out for a game ? 
 
 I ’ave knowed most re- 
 spectable buffers to 
 do the hidentical 
 
 in my pocket — don’t 
 fancy I smoked quite 
 so many — 
 
 Two corks, and a big 
 white bone button, a 
 threepenny-bit, and a 
 penny. 
 
 11 . 
 
 I started that day with 
 two quid ; so it piled 
 pooty stiffish, dear 
 boy. 
 
 Still I ’old with the 
 Four in-Hand Club- 
 bers that Coaching’s 
 the sport to enjoy. 
 
 It’s fun and good form 
 all in one like, and 
 when sech top-ropes 
 yer can carry. 
 
 Who cares if it docs 
 come expensive ? Not 
 Yours 
 
 Everlastingly 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 same. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 ’A R R Y. 
 
34 
 
 44 ? 
 
 
 9 ? 
 
 aC£ab from 
 
 99 
 
 3. ON THE RAIL. 
 
 '^V.\vv^ . 
 
 (Illustration from “Punch.”) 
 
 4 . 
 
 e wos off by the earliest train, and ’ad breakfast, a buster, 
 o?iy 7-oot ; 
 
 Cold tea, ’ard biled hepgs, and green happles, — you know 
 gurls is nuts upon fruit, — 
 
 Wound up with a nip and a Pickwick. I tell yer it wasn’t 
 arf bad. 
 
 There is nothing like starting a spree with a good bottom 
 layer, my lad. 
 
 We’d took third class tickets in course, mate, but I put ’em 
 up to a fake. 
 
 EAR CHARLIE, 
 
 Still keeping the game up ! I likes a good slog while 
 I’m iu. 
 
 Life’s jest like a shetlecock, Charlie, wuth nothink when 
 not on the spin. 
 
 The River and Road I ’ave done, as you know, for I tipped 
 you the tale ; 
 
 And now I’m jest back from a journey, a regular rattler, by 
 Rail ! 
 
 2 . 
 
 lle.xeursion to Margit, my pijipin, five bob there and back, don’t yer 
 know. 
 
 But oirr party wos quite up-to-Dick, — you’re aweer as I never cuts low. 
 Nine on iis, five gurls and four fellers, jest one of the latter too 
 few. 
 
 But they knowed me of old, did our lot, and they always counts ’Arry 
 as two ! 
 
 3 . 
 
 I tell you, old man, ’twas my day. I was never iu lovelier form ; 
 
 And as for the petticuts, Charlie, I regular took tJiem by storm. 
 
 Two was told off to me — Liz and Carry — but, bless yer, I fetched ’em all 
 round. 
 
 I should make a ’ot Hottoman, Charlie, Turk style suits me down to the 
 ground. 
 
 7. 
 
 Fairly squelched ’im, my dignitude did. Off we rumbled, 
 a precious tight pack. 
 
 Our lot praised me up for my pluck, and I tried the same 
 game coming back. 
 
 But a fierce ginger-whiskered old josser wos fly to the fake- 
 ment this go. 
 
 Snakes ! I thought he’d ’ave tore off my coat-tails. Big chap, 
 but ’ot tempered and low. 
 
 8 . 
 
 We ’adn’t much time by the briny, the weather, as usual, 
 was rummy ; 
 
 ’Ung back last, then popped into a Second. Y^oung Bloggs | But the fun on the road made up that, and our progs was 
 did a bit of quake, ! peculiar lummy. 
 
 But I brazened it bout like a Marquige. Wot use to be Tuck in 1 ’Tain’t the word. If you’d spotted the tea as we 
 
 timid ? Yah— bah ! 
 
 Third-class ticket, and second-class carriage, and company 
 /?«<-class ! Ha ! ha ! 
 
 6 . 
 
 I know ’ow to work it, old oyster. It only wants coolness 
 and cheek. 
 
 nine put away. 
 
 You’d ’a said that, at ninepence a nut, ’twas a spec as looked 
 ’ardly like pay. 
 
 9 . 
 
 Srimps ? Scissors ! ’Ow Carry did crunch ’em ! No fin- 
 nicking peeling, — no fear ! 
 
 The way as I haw-haw’d that guard, I emagine was some- ■ Heads off, and then bolt, holus-bolus — that’s bizness ! And 
 think uneek. | as for the beei', — 
 
 “ No room nowheres else. Mister Wotsername, not a dashed | Not to name other labels of lotion — well, nines into thirty 
 haporth,” sez I. 1 won’t go ; 
 
 “ If tlie Company’s mugs at their bizness, you can’t expect But put it in pots, my dear boy, and you’ll not be far from 
 hus to stand by ! ” j it, I know. 
 
^a£Ca6s — front 35 
 
 10 . 
 
 Cornin’ ’ome was the 
 barney, my bloater ! 
 We got in together, 
 tis nine ; 
 
 Carry sat on my knee 
 in one corner, there 
 bein’ a rush on the 
 line. 
 
 Young Green’s concer- 
 tina was ’andy, Tom 
 Blogg’s a rare dab 
 at the bones, 
 
 If we didn’t raise thun- 
 der and tommy, old 
 chap, it’s a caution 
 to Jones. 
 
 11 . 
 
 We did give it tongue 
 I can tell yer, I 
 didn’t choke off, not 
 a minnit. 
 
 And when I bring out 
 my top notes, rail- 
 way whistles is sim- 
 ply not in it. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C. Keene, 
 
 Yah ! Talk is like tea; 
 it wants “ lacing ” 
 with something a 
 little bit strong. 
 
 And if it do run to a 
 d now and then, 
 why I don’t fox the 
 wrong. 
 
 11 . 
 
 It’s all Gospel - shop 
 gruel, dear boy. 
 We’ll look after our 
 own parts of speech. 
 
 And rap out a hoath 
 now and then with- 
 out asking a prig 
 on the preach. 
 
 Wot limp ’uns there is 
 in the world ! Why, 
 a gurl in our car- 
 riage that night 
 
 Booty nigh did a faint 
 at our fun, and I 
 know it was all 
 narsty spite. 
 
 "\Be chorus’d and clump’d it to rights ; for a row-dc-dow toc- 
 and-heel treat 
 
 The floor of a long railway carriage, third class, isn’t easy 
 to beat. 
 
 12 . 
 
 Then the chaff at the Stations ! ’Twos spiffing ! We put 
 some old guys on the wax. 
 
 Do they think when a gent rides by rail he must pass all 
 his time reading tracks ? 
 
 A fig for sech mumchance 
 old mivvies ! I ’ates 
 the ’ole mealy-mouthed 
 brood. 
 
 When a feller is out on 
 the bustle a jolly good 
 ’owl does ’im good. 
 
 13 . 
 
 As for languidge ! Them 
 “ Telegraff” twaddlers 
 may trot out their Catos 
 and such ; 
 
 Is a chap on the scoop to be 
 burked for a “ blowed ” 
 or a “ blooming ” too 
 much ? 
 
 15 . 
 
 A chalky-faced creature she were, and she sat by ’erself and 
 looked sad. 
 
 And when Tom cheeked her up she complained that our 
 bacco-smoke made ’er feel bad. 
 
 And could we just sing a hit softer ? Oh, snakes I we’d the 
 highest old game. 
 
 Till a big chap stood up from behind, and declared ’twas a 
 thundering shame. 
 
 16 . 
 
 He’d a fist like a sledge, 
 so we stashed it. But 
 wasn’t it like her dashed 
 cheek ? 
 
 ’Owsomever we made up 
 in shindy ; they can’t 
 quod a chap for a 
 squeak. 
 
 I never did ’ear sech a 
 rouser ; and as for that 
 impident Carry, 
 
 She swears if there is a 
 gay dashe)', it’s 
 
 A’ours as per usual, 
 
 ’A R R Y. 
 
’JtrxnV" ^art‘a6 ^ from 
 
 no 
 
 AT TH^ PLAY. 
 
 ♦ ♦- 
 
 liiustration from “ Punch,” by G. du Maurier, 
 
 QEAR CHARLIE, 
 
 I sends yer the programs I promised. I’ve bin f>n the '• 
 
 I 
 
 And yon’ll find that i/iis dose is a dollup. I’m gettin’ ilead ' 
 nuts on the ]ilay. 
 
 I’ve l)in going the rounds rare and rorty, along of a si)illlical ; 
 
 And as you’re still out of the swim like. I’ll tip yor my 
 notions, old jial. 
 
 The Musie ’All once was mark, and I thought the 
 theayter cold inufhn. 
 
 Which Shakespear and Byron and them, on the ’ole, is 
 decidedly duttin ; \ 
 
 But now the Stage licks arf the 'Alls, mate, for side-splitters, 
 spice, and hare pink, 
 
 0 it isn’t arf dusty I tell ycr ; and so Polly Jane seems to 
 think. 
 
 Polly Jane is my latest she-pal, Charlie, old Jones’s 
 3 ’oungest but one, 
 
 A gal of rare sparkle and sperrit, and dead nuts 
 on frolick and fun. 
 
 Good crib at a wholesale Perfumer’s, I tell you she 
 pulls in the pelf. 
 
 Can sport horstrich feathers, my hoy, and ’er 
 evenings ’as all to ’erself. 
 
 Not |>ertikler, young Polly Jane isn’t, a gal o’ the 
 world, so to speak ; 
 
 Not as much maiden’s blush in ’er, mate, as would 
 colour a penny doll’s check ; 
 
 Knows her way about well, I can tell ycr, wears 
 ’igh ’eels and Astrykan fur. 
 
 And ’twould vvant someone smart at snide patter 
 to take any change out of h(7\ 
 
 Reglar type of the time, is my Polly ; no soft modest 
 violet muck ; 
 
 Let a chap try the dowdy domestic with her, and 
 he’ll soon get the chuck. 
 
 Free-and-easy’s her form ; she’s a churn, Charlie, that’s wot 
 she is, and no kid. 
 
 Like most women wot has outgrown Home Sweet Homo 
 and the 1 )o-as-you’re-hid. 
 
 Woman’s Rights ain’t my maxim, dear boy, but when out on 
 the merry cavort 
 
 I like a she-pardner with sperrit, and ready for all kinds o 
 sport. 
 
 Polly’s mashed on the Mummers tremenjus, and her taste 
 and mine run in j)air.s. 
 
 And if sometimes P. J. (fo stand .Sam, why / ain’t one to 
 give mvself hairs. 
 
 M'hat I ’old is as plays should be plays, and not hist’ry, or 
 prcachin, or spout. 
 
 You go ill for a laugh and a lush (don’t P. J. lap the lemon 
 and stout I) 
 
'Pat*Ca6s 
 
 37 
 
 from ‘‘ ^3? unc6.” 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by G. du Maurier. 
 
 I’m aware there is softs as prefers to see Virtue wop Vice at 
 
 I the Vic., 
 
 I But we’ve rose aliove all that old rot, and j^o in for what 
 j Frenchmen calls “ Chick /” 
 
 I 8. 
 
 I “ Chick’s ” — well, tain’t so easy to say, but it’s doosid like 
 I what ive calls “ cheek 
 
 I Sly sarce, don’t ycr know, ’ot and sweet, with a da.sh of the 
 I blue, but mixed weak. 
 
 I 
 
 The “blend ” ain’t a bad ’un. I'll tell yer; the tofts put us 
 up to the fake. 
 
 And our taste and theirs in sech things is as like as two 
 peas, — no nustake ! 
 
 9 . 
 
 1 In course they carnt go the ’ole ’og ; my Lord Chamberling’s 
 down if they does ; 
 
 The bloomin’ old Mivvey must raise, now and then, jest a 
 bit of a buzz ; 
 
 I 
 
 j But, bless yer, there’s lots as he passes, 0. K. and accordin’ 
 ! to Cocker, 
 
 As — well, soap-board crawlers might ’owl, but it suits me 
 right up to the knocker. 
 
 10 . 
 
 “ Cluck” does it, ycr see ; oh a neat bit of parley-ioo covers 
 a lot. 
 
 And as most of our jilays arc n©\; cribbed from the Fi’cnch, 
 wy they’re all poot}’ ’ot. 
 
 Legs 1 Bless you, my boy, they ain't in it with ogles and 
 antics and ’ints. 
 
 As sets Polly Jane on the snigger, and fetches the ochre in 
 mints. 
 
 11 . 
 
 It’s lummy to see the Swells larfing at capers as tickles hus 
 too — 
 
 The Swells used to sit stiff as hice when the Gallery raised 
 a bohoo ; 
 
 Now one twigs out-and-outei’s take down wots too spice 
 a’most for the Pit, 
 
 And if they don’t clap like the “ gods,” wy, ycr see, kids 
 given to split. 
 
 12 . 
 
 Ain’t they down on the treacly domestic? — a lay as I always 
 did ’ate. 
 
 You know the old flapdoodle muck, tea for two and no 
 stoppiu’ out late ; 
 
 Gonnoobial yum-yum for ever ! no larks on the slyest 
 (j. T., 
 
 P’ramb’lators and jiroperness — lord ! it ’ud jest about colly- 
 fog mo ! 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 j 
 
08 "^a££abB — fvoxn 
 
 13 . 
 
 Foi’ chick there was few to beat Sclmcider ; but one of the 
 best 1 ’avc seen 
 
 Wos Sarali liurnhard, who I saw when she ruled as tlie 
 Gaiety Queen. 
 
 Every gent as wos really a gent, and a lover of chick and 
 ler how 
 
 Wos bound to ’avc seen 8ally lb, so yours truly of course 
 had to go. 
 
 Illustration from “ punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 I’d bin picking up French a bit lately along o’ iny new 
 chum, Alfongs, 
 
 Who acts as a (jarsonej — that’s waiter — at one of them new 
 Itestorongs, [swim; 
 
 I can patter it proper, I tell yer, and feel to be quite in the 
 
 And as Alf, as I call him, likes plays, I once went to see 
 Sarah with him. 
 
 15 . 
 
 Hum name, don’t you know ; don’t sound French, more than 
 Betsy or Emily-Ann ; 
 
 But you heard it all over the shop, like one once heard 
 “ Whoa Emma ! ’’ old man. 
 
 All cur Pros felt their nose out of joint when this Comerdee 
 Frongsay lot came. 
 
 And finding ’twas quite ler fromarge, I was bound to be fly 
 to the game. 
 
 16 . 
 
 “ ’Ot 1 ” Oh my ! In that Gallery, Charlie, Old Nick would 
 have found it too warm. 
 
 Which two-and-a-tanner is stiff, but you do have to pay for 
 good form ; 
 
 And oh ! sech a swell lot below us, the regular crame deller 
 crarne ! 
 
 But I noticed most on ’em had books, though, and minded 
 ’em too, all the same. 
 
 17 . 
 
 They do put on the pace in their jiatter, them French do, 
 remarkable ’ot. 
 
 And though I’d straight tips from Alfongs, I must own as I 
 missed a rare lot. 
 
 But if some of the Swells didn’t ditto. I’ll oat my old hat, 
 which it’s tough — 
 
 Though they tried to look horful hojaij , — wot in English 
 we’d call up to snuff. 
 
 18 . 
 
 If you ask wot I thought of it, Charlie, I tell you, old 
 feller, not much ! 
 
 ’Twos dry, Charlie, doosidly dry, and for spice our theayters 
 can’t touch. 
 
 From wot I ’ad ’card of French plays 1 did look for a bit of 
 a lark — 
 
 rink Dominos style, only more so, but blowcd if ’twas up to 
 that mark. 
 
 19 . 
 
 Nothing pointed, you know, and no puns ; all the ’igh 
 perlite droring-room style ; 
 
 Lots of naughty-nice business, I s’pose, but so wropped up 
 in smirk, shrug, and smile. 
 
 That yer couldn’t lay hold on it somehow, like some sorts of 
 scents, my dear boy, 
 
 arf enjoy. 
 
 20 . 
 
 I do like my Saviours strong, no French salads or soofflays 
 for me. 
 
 And when you are in for a joke give us one as a fellow can 
 see. 
 
 Alfongs talks about Gallic fine ess, wot the dickens it is I 
 don’t know. 
 
 But French filagree’s not to my mind, I like more of stuff, 
 substance, and go. 
 
 21 . 
 
 And Sarah 1 Well, Charlie, she’s fetching, there ain’t no two 
 ways about that. 
 
 She made pooty picturs when standing, and pootier ones 
 when she sat ; 
 
 But she’s cut jest a leet/e too fine for my fancy. No, give 
 me Croysetf, 
 
 As I think you would say is a stnnnei*, though Sarah’s the 
 Toothpickers’ pet. 
 
39 
 
 '38aCCa6s from “'3*uitc6.” 
 
 Illustration from “Punchy" byG. du Maurier. 
 
 22 . 
 
 But take ’em all round, well, I tell yer, I think they’re a 
 bit of a frost. 
 
 Though, my parleyvoo not being puffect, no doubt there 
 wos some things I lost ; 
 
 But there didn’t seem nothing to brisk one, no rallies, no 
 dances, no songs. 
 
 Not a patch upon Terry, with Nelly and Kate, as I sez to 
 Alfongs. 
 
 23 . 
 
 Then there’s Warner in “Drink,” now, that’s business, 
 good goods and no error — 0 lor ! 
 
 I shall never forget that D. T. ! If the Froggies ’ud do 
 Lassommor, 
 
 Wy, I’d go, if ’twere jest to compare ’em. I saw Croysett 
 die in the “ Sphinks,” 
 
 But I guess she ain’t in it with Charlie, although it is 
 strikenine she drinks. 
 
 24 . 
 
 The criticks jest now is a arguing each other’s heads off, 
 dear boy. 
 
 About Hibsen and sech forrin crackpots, whose fakements I 
 cannot enjoy. 
 
 They are nuts upon “ Nature,” they tell us ; as fur as I sec, 
 for my part 
 
 All that’s hugly and narsty means Nature, the rest is “ Con- 
 ventional Hart.” 
 
 25 . 
 
 Then bully for ff, sez yours truly ; Conventional Hart, 
 mate, I mean ; 
 
 Mellerdrammer these mugs would abolish. Sensation they’d 
 kick off the scene. 
 
 And give us some gloomy young woman as cannot git on 
 with ’er bloke. 
 
 And who snivels away through three acks without ever a 
 fight or a joke. 
 
 £ 6 . 
 
 That “Nature?” Ah, Charlie, my biffin, the world ain’t 
 all roses and milk. 
 
 But every young wife ain’t a Maybrick, nor every young 
 man ain’t a bilk. 
 
 The snivel and stab of Sensation ain’t wus than this 
 mildewy muck. 
 
 And when the Stage comes to this pattern, yours truly will 
 give it the chuck. 
 
 27 . 
 
 When I goes to the Play with young Polly, I goes for a larf 
 or a creep. 
 
 Your Shakspeare’s too much like a sermon in verse, and it 
 sends me to sleep. 
 
 I like a fair stodge of Sensation ; the gurgle and gush, when 
 well done. 
 
 As it is by yer Willards and Barretts, ain’t bad, but the best 
 is Blue Fun ! 
 
 28 . 
 
 We want bizness and fun, Charlie. Bless yer, the thin 
 water gruelly stuff 
 
 Wot the smuggers would ladle us out, always gives me the 
 ’ump and the ’uff. 
 
40 
 
 ’JVrvp ^aira6^ from 
 
 ' But tlicy’ie clroppiii’ it, Charlie, tlicy’ie dro])piii’ it, like ' 
 o'.kcr moral ’ot taters. 
 
 Won’t i>;o, any more than a ballet-gal's kgs in a bishop’s 
 black gaiters. 
 
 . ‘29. 
 
 ] always did say wbat one wants at tbe Plaj' is fair yum- 
 i y>ini and larks, 
 
 , And now ’ore’s some horacles tipping tlieir ditto to ’Arry’s 
 ■ remarks. 
 
 ^ The ’igh-tlying crickits may sj)lntter, the sleek soapboard 
 ! crawleis may sniff. 
 
 But gumptionors know that wot p<i>/^ is the pink and the 
 I spicily sj)iff. 
 
 [ 30. 
 
 I I mayn’t be a IMasher e.\ackly, leastwa}’s what the public so 
 calls, 
 
 ’Cos it won’t always run to claw ’ammers, white kites, and 
 
 I front rows in the Stalls. 
 
 I But 1 know ’em, and, tijj me the ochre, I'd take a fair hand 
 
 ; in tlieir game, 
 
 j h'or as fur as I see in our notions and tastes we’re percisely 
 the same. 
 
 31. 
 
 Wot’s all this yer chat about Beauty that Artists and 
 Parsons pay out ? 
 
 If a cliap ain’t to get a fair eye on it when a neat parcel’s 
 about, 
 
 \oiir Beauty’s a bloomin’ old fraud. It is when it’s on 
 show, my dear boy. 
 
 That it’s worth anythink to a bloke as is blest with the 
 taste to enjoy. 
 
 32. ' 
 i ell, the Stage is a Beautj’-Shop, Charlie, that’s wrojiping 
 
 ! it up nice and small. 
 
 And I wants as much for my tin as the Chamberling’s game 
 j for, that’s all. 
 
 1 If Pootiness trots ’erself out for my taste, it Jiays her I’ll be 
 ; bound. 
 
 And her Sliowman, he takes hie gate-money, and so we are 
 ’appy all round. 
 
 ’ 33. 
 
 Not moral, sing out the old Mivvies ! Lor, Charlie, what 
 ’umlmg it is ! 
 
 If we’re all in the swim, free and willing, and all find it 
 jolly good biz, 
 
 \\ ho the doose has the right to complain 1 ’’I'isn’t morals 
 that’s wanted, old ]>al, 
 
 j But r/evernees, whether in Manager, Masher, or limber- 
 limbed gal. 
 
 34. 
 
 “Wide oh I ” is the word in this world, Charlie. Beauty 
 must prance it for pelf. 
 
 And as to the nek, that’s ’cr bizness — she’s got to look out 
 for ’erself. 
 
 Theayters ain’t Sunday Schools, are they ? nor Managers 
 Matrons and Nusses, 
 
 And Pink Parades ain’t to bo spoiled by the fads of the 
 frumps and the fusses. 
 
 3.a. 
 
 She knows her own book. Sir, does Beaut}', and don’t want 
 no texts out o’ your’n. 
 
 You tip her a track, and jest try it — she’d cut such a 
 .luggins with scorn ! 
 
 If me and the .Masher wants check and carnation, and she’s 
 on the job, 
 
 M'hy shouldn’t her Stage ’I'rotter-out take his perks too at 
 so much a nob 'i 
 
 3t). 
 
 It’s Free Trade — in Beauty, my biffin, demand and supidy 
 and all that. 
 
 You know what you go to the shop for, and get it, that’s 
 puttin’ it pat. 
 
 Lot’s be’onest, old pal, 1 /(n'('’onestyallroundmy’at, andnokid. 
 
 I covid pitch you a yarn on that text ; but 1 fear 1 must put 
 on the skid. 
 
 37. 
 
 Call a shovel a shovel’s mymotter. SomesayPm acyniclecad; 
 
 Wot’s “ cynicle,” Charlie’:' Jest ’one.sf ; jtlain fade without 
 jjainting or pad. 
 
 Pop out the straight truth with a grin, and they dubs you 
 a Satter or Turk ; 
 
 You should wrcip it up nice in white sugar, and. ’and it 
 about with a smirk. 
 
 38. 
 
 If I worked the theatrical fake — -which I don’t, my dear 
 Charlie, wus luck ! — 
 
 / shouldn’t go spouting of morals, pure art, and such 
 mollyslop muck. 
 
 Not me, Sir ! Pink saucer and strangle and spice would be 
 my little lay. 
 
 And I’d own I a 'Beauty-Shop kept, and I rather meant 
 making it pay. 
 
 39. 
 
 Carn’tsee, for my part, wytheaytres are jealousof ’Alls. Polly J. 
 
 Says, “ they’re both livin’ up the same street.” Wy, there’s 
 many a regular “ Play ” 
 
 As is three parts “ Yariety,” Charlie, to one of “ Ligiti- 
 mate ” stuff ; 
 
 And to crib from the ’Alls and then slate ’em and snub ’em 
 seems playing it rough. 
 
 40. 
 
 My sentiments, mate, and I’m ’appy to find they are 
 spreading a bit ; 
 
 In fact, that my notions of Life are decidedly making a ’it. 
 
 Yu-u-up ! Foller yer leader, you Mashers and Managers, 
 all who can carry 
 
 Sufficient sky-sciapcrs to kec]i in the 'nut, with that ’igh 
 flyer 
 
 ’ A R R Y. 
 
^aCCa6s fx*om “"gfuncK.” « ' 
 
 ON SONG AND SDNTIMDNT. 
 
 - - 44 ^ 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by E. T. Reed. 
 
 EAR CHARLIE, 
 
 Your bulhday, old bandbox, I’vo got it marked 
 down “ Old kerrcct,” 
 
 And .some sort of a little momeiito is wot a old pal miglit 
 expect. 
 
 Well, 1 know }-ou’re a mark upon Sing-song, and nuts on 
 the comical lay, 
 
 : So I send you a rorty collectiou of Popular Songs of the Doy. 
 
 i 2 . 
 
 i Reglar rousers, my pippin, I tell ycr, tlic pick of the ’Alls 
 took all round, 
 
 i And the lot, sentimental or comic, 'll suit ycr right down 
 
 I to the ground. 
 
 ' I fancy 1 ’car your line liarrytcnc piping out, “Mother’s Old 
 
 i Mu<>- ” 
 
 1*1 'If-, 
 
 I Or “Doin’ the Toff for a Tanner,” or “’Any, dear, put 
 on the ’Ug ! ” 
 
 Some old bloke, I forgot who exsackly, although he gits 
 quoted a lot. 
 
 And the D. T. jest trots him out reglar whenever it puts 
 on the j)ot. 
 
 Remaiks, “ Let the Bigwigs make Laws for the Peoi>le so 
 1 makes their Songs ! ” 
 
 And the hodds on that chap being right are St. Paul’s to 
 a pair of old tongs. 
 
 t. 
 
 He knowed English hearts, diil that joker; he jest took my 
 weight to a hounce. 
 
 Legislators, my l)ippiip ain't in it along o’ my pal, “The Big- 
 Bounce.” I 
 
 He’s top-row, if ycr like, and no turnups, smart brougham, 
 sealskin coat, all U. K.; 
 
 Yet he tips me the haffablc tli])pcr as though I was fair on 
 his lay. 
 
 Ah ! to sit, mate, and listen to lum, cigars round, and a 
 bottle of fizz, 
 
 AVliile he rattles out “ Mashed on a Muggins,” is what 1 call , 
 real good biz. 
 
 Monday Pops are all kibosh and catgut, and oven the Pro- 
 menard palls ; 
 
 If yer want Song and Sentiment, Charlie, fust choj), you 
 must go to the ’Alls. 
 
 (i. 
 
 That’s Life and no bow-wow, my bithn ! The mugs who 
 write poetry rot 
 
 All skim-milk and die-away doldrums, they simply ain't up 
 to wot’s wot. 
 
 AVe want something spicy and sparklin’, .lest take wot a 
 feller likes most. 
 
 Pop it into smart vei’se with a chorus, and there you are, 
 served upon toast. 
 
 7. 
 
 AYot would you and me do, my dear Charlie, if we ’ad a 
 thousand a year? 
 
 larks, ^/toPs true poetry, ain't it 1 Not sawdust and 
 snivel, no fear ! 
 
 To cut a fair dash, dress slap-uppish, ’avc fourpenny smokes 
 and good drink, 
 
 AVith a touch of the azure for fun, and foryum-x am a patch 
 of the pink ! 
 
 S. 
 
 That’s Life, mate, I say once agin, and put into a Song that’s 
 oar mark. 
 
 And the bokos who try other barneys arc bossing about in 
 the dark. 
 
 The “ Big Bounce ” hits the “ bull ” every time, mate, ’cos 
 why ? he ’as bin in the swim. 
 
 And it’s jolly few games on the board as don’t ojien like | 
 hysters to ’m». i 
 
42 
 
 U 7 
 
 
 fx'ont “B'wncd. 
 
 
 r- ^ ^ 
 
 / f' 
 
 ii4^! 
 
 Hii " 
 
 12 . 
 
 Ycr stiff’ Horytoi'yo bosh is a kibosh I never conld 
 stand, 
 
 Six hundred a sliouting like mad in a Chorus they tell 
 us is Grand, 
 
 Make.5 7ue sing “ (), my timpynum ! ” Charlie, Great 
 Scott, ’ow they do give it mouth ! 
 
 ’Andel Festivals may suit the smugs, but give me 
 patter songs at the “ South.” 
 
 13 . 
 
 The Serpruners squeak hup to the chimleys, the 
 Busses growl down in a “dive,” 
 
 And then there’s yer Recitateever, the dismal'est 
 duffer alive ; 
 
 Whines out somethink that ain’t got no metre wor 
 music, but sounds purty much 
 
 Like March winds ’owling over the ’ouse tops, I tell 
 yer it isn’t touch. 
 
 14 . 
 
 There is many a Street-cry, my pippin, knocks 
 rccitateeves into fits ; 
 
 Wy, a pootily piped “ Blooming Lavender,” done as 
 I’ve ’card it, by chits, 
 
 “ Sixteen good market brarnches a penny,” as meller 
 as blackbirds in June, 
 
 Boats ’Andel’s molrowings a buster to all wot ’as ears 
 for a tune. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 9 . 
 
 Don’t he touch up our patriot feelings with 
 “ Britons shall bang ’em all round ! ” ? 
 
 That’s ■wot we can all understand, mate, and 
 my ! ’oxv the ’obnails do sound ! 
 
 Let the Tory lot give us a Leader as takes 
 the “ Big Bounce ” for his model, 
 
 And Brummagem Joe and his gang may jest 
 pick up their trotters and toddle. 
 
 10 . 
 
 As to Sentiment, Charlie, you know as I ain’t of 
 the snivelling sort. 
 
 But “ Mother’s Last Spank ” is a fetcher, while 
 “ Angels have called for Jim Short,” 
 
 Or “ Don’t put Father’s Watch u]i the Spout ” 
 are both v'ory fair biz in their wa}’. 
 
 And a thousand times better than “ Kathleen 
 Mavourneen ” or “ Auld Robin Gray.” 
 
 11 . 
 
 “ Spoons ” — sweetheart or nursery, Chaidie, go 
 down with the women, old chap ; 
 
 For wot tliey call “ patlios,” my pippin, is 
 mostly a spechies of pap 
 
 Ajn-ypo of the kids or the petticoats. Latter, of 
 course, is my lay. 
 
 But I do like the rosy put rorty, and love- 
 making done on the gay. 
 
 Illustration from “Pur.ch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
^aCCa6^ from 43 
 
 Halbut ’All and Messiah ? Not much, Charlie, Music-Shoi) 
 mugs may pertest, 
 
 But they know as the love sick and larky are two lines as 
 2 xiy ’em the best ; 
 
 Somethink gushy or cldch is wot’s wanted. The gushy, 
 when really well done. 
 
 With plenty of treacle and twist, and good eye-goggle 
 fetches like fun. 
 
 20 . 
 
 These Songs inahe the People, my pippin. We build ourselves 
 up on their plan, — ■ 
 
 We snide ’uns, I mean, and the others ain’t really wuth 
 recknin, old man. 
 
 Wy, if we came into a fortune, in Dress or in Drink, Love 
 or Lai'ks, 
 
 Wot could Ave do better than take the B. B. as our priinest 
 of marks ? 
 
 With a song about “ Roses,” old jAal, and a rolling 
 contralto, oh my ! 
 
 The singist may prove a fair siren, though fat, Avith 
 a cast in’er eye. 
 
 Still, Avot cops ’em’s a good comic chorus, Avith 
 plenty of bellows and blare. 
 
 No meaning, but lots of dah caper and crash, and 
 a rattling good hair. 
 
 17 . 
 
 “ Annie Rooney,” or “ Comrades,” dear boy, “ She’s 
 my honey ” — that’s good in a fog 
 
 Where I ’card a baked-tatc-r boy ’owl it as tho’ 
 ’tAvas much better than prog — ■ 
 
 Them’s yer sort, but Avot’s best is a chorus without 
 no more sense than a bray, 
 
 Like “ Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay ! ” Charlie. That 
 knocks ’em for many a day. 
 
 18 . 
 
 There, my pal, tho “ Big Bounce,” is a hot ’un. 
 What can be more lummy, dear boy. 
 
 Than “ Dasher the Masher,” page ten? turn it up, 
 it’s a song to enjoy. 
 
 You should hear the B. B. roll it out, you should 
 see his light kids and his wink ! 
 
 If there is any party I envy, it’s him, Charlie. "Wot 
 do you think ? 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by C. Keene. 
 
 j Well, Avell, Ave can’t all be Big Bounces — avus luck ! but I’m 
 I sure you’ll agree 
 
 i That the Music ’All Song paints a picter of Avot Ave should 
 j all like to be ; 
 
 And that’s Avhere it nails us, dear Charlie, and that’s 
 what I meant when I said 
 
 That that Josser, whose name I’ve forgotten, ’ad ’it the 
 right nail on the ’ed. 
 
 21 . 
 
 0, it makes a chap’s mouth Avater, Charlie ; I’m blowed if it 
 don’t. Just you think 
 
 Of being a “Dasher the Masher,” of ’aving his togs and his 
 chink ! 
 
 The gals at your feet, fun and frolic and fizz jest as much as 
 you’ll carry ! 
 
 That’s Life, and that’s Music ’All Song, mate, and that’s the 
 True Ticket for 
 
 ’ A R R Y. 
 
44 
 
 from ‘•'Ifmtcft.” 
 
 ON the: continong. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 1 . 
 
 C HER C'HARLIK, 
 
 J'l/ swee ay jy reste — fora fortnit or «o. Ain’t 
 it prime 1 
 
 I landed on Kaine Dor, ycr know, and I’ve ’ad secli a proper 
 old time. 
 
 ' And as ’twas the French ’Oss as jdimihed me and give me 
 j my chance of a hout, 
 
 I thought I’d trot over to Parry, and sec wot the frogs was 
 about. 
 
 2 . 
 
 Oh, a pocketful do perk one uj) like. 1 laid in a sweet suit 
 o’ strijjes, 
 
 And went in a regular crusher for neckties, light kids, and 
 silk wijics. 
 
 If you’d twigged me, dear l:oy, on the start you’d ’a said I 
 was mi.xing it strong, 
 
 But didn't it jest fetch tw dames as 1 druv in the Ihvor dir 
 lioolony ? 
 
 3 . 
 
 Not so rorty as London, my pipjjin, and laid sivor j 
 poo frothy and thin \ 
 
 1 ’ope you arc fly to the Lingo ; 1 tip yoii the ; 
 Parleyvoo in. 
 
 C<naes nateral now, don’t j'er know, though more 
 orkerd to write than to speak. 
 
 But my haccent’s considered the cheese, and my | 
 style o’ prcnouncin’ it c/n'e. | 
 
 4 . 
 
 You remember Alfongs, wot I tohl you of some i 
 time ago, my new clmni 1 ' 
 
 AVell, he was in Parry permiskus ; and didn’t we 
 make the thing hum ! j 
 
 Alfongs knows the ropes, bein’ a native, a true 
 hidly carder, dear boy. 
 
 As ho calls hisself proud-like iierpctual. Parry is 
 Alfongs's joy. ! 
 
 He talks of it lovingly, (’harlie, and calls it Lar 
 Belle wotsername. 
 
 As though ’twas a gal he was mashed on. Parisians j 
 is mostly the same. | 
 
 Fancy you and me spoony on London I But lor ! 
 these ere furrineers’ ways 
 
 Is conundrums to commonsense Britons ; one ’arf 
 of ’em strikes yer as craze. 
 
 (j. 
 
 Alfongs was pertikular useful though, ’long o’ the patter 
 and that. 
 
 When a hot ’un like me ’s on his track he don’t want to be 
 took for a flat. 
 
 He showed me the French Real Jam, as he said he would, ' 
 took me about. 
 
 And when I got into a ’oblde his hiillyvard tack ’ooked me 
 out. 
 
 7 . 
 
 Not so rorty as London, I said, and I sticks to it. Some- 
 how, yer know. 
 
 One feels jest a little mite out of it. Lots of ler yai and 
 ler ho. 
 
 But jolly ? Well, no, not percisely ; the larks, like the 
 liquors, run light. 
 
 And a sjirce a lar Fnmysay, though gassy, don't fill up my 
 pewter — not quite. 
 
45 
 
 “’Jlt'fw” '58aCCa6s from “Wmtcl).” 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 8 . 
 
 There ain’t enongh body about it, no 
 row-de-dow rollick and ramp. 
 
 The French don’t seem np to per- 
 doocing us cards of the jolly-dog- 
 stamp. 
 
 They sits at the caffys and chatters, 
 and tipples up tots weak as tea, 
 
 But a pot o’ hwr-’arf and a frolic is 
 things as you don’t often see. 
 
 9 . 
 
 Fine streets, and no error, though, 
 Charlie. Them bullyvards bangs 
 us to bits. 
 
 You might jday cricket well in their 
 squares, slog for sixes, and run out 
 your ’its. 
 
 That Place dellei' Concorde, instance, 
 — I’m blowed if one doesn’t feel lost, 
 
 And pine for a pub. in Cheapside, stout- 
 and-mild and a cut off the roast. 
 
 10 . 
 
 I’here’s a deal too much finnick and 
 
 fuss, hyang J/os.soo-ing, and that sort o’ thing 
 You don t want your gassong — that’s waiter — to speak like 
 a haffable king ; 
 
 Puts 3’er out, don’t yer know. Now, our “yessir” sounds 
 proper, respeckful, and pat, 
 
 But a Frenchman’s all bows and hong Jours, and he lives with 
 ’is ’and to ’is ’at. 
 
4G 
 
 CC 9 
 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by G. du Maurier. 
 
 11 . 
 
 A smart Concier(je in a cap, with a heyc full of mischief 
 and fun, 
 
 Seems pooty good goods for a rally, but, bless yer, it ain’t 
 to bo done, 
 
 I put on the rattle to rights in the style that’s so taking 
 shay noo, 
 
 But they ain’t got the ’ang of it, Charlie, — it doesn’t 
 come off, not a few. 
 
 12 . 
 
 Of course you carn’t chaff aimmy fo in a language you 
 haven’t quite nailed ; 
 
 But my style ought to do if, dear boy — it’s the very fust 
 time as it’s failed. 
 
 It’s the fault of young I’renchinen, I fancy — they carn’t 
 come the true rorty pal, 
 
 And yer see, when the feller ain’t wide, why, what can you 
 expect from the gal 1 
 
 13 . 
 
 Later on I picked up a Bank Clerk, as was out on the 
 lonely like me. 
 
 And I think we astonished the natives, and showed ’em our 
 ])attern o’ sjiree. 
 
 ’Ow they stared at our capers, dear boy ! ’ow we laughed 
 at their “ Commonys I ” and shrugs ! 
 
 No. I’arry’s 0. K., and no kid ; but the ^lossoos is most 
 on ’em .Mu<rs. 
 
 14 . 
 
 “ Fust himpressions ! ” says you. Worry true, but I take 
 a cou d’eel tidy quick. 
 
 I thought to find Parry a p irrydise ruled by the merry Old 
 Nick ; 
 
 It’s a City of Caffys, clean streets, opin spaces, and spick- 
 and-span ’ouses, 
 
 And women without any bonnets, and workmen in dingy 
 blue blouses : 
 
 1 ?. 
 
 No pubs, but long bully vards, Charlie, all Ilustyrongs 
 tables, and trees ; 
 
 With folks grubbin all over the place upon kickshaws and 
 claret and cheese. 
 
 But there ain’t no ’ome feeling about ’em, these l)7-asserie 
 cribs and wot not, 
 
 And for comfort, and fun, and good tijiplc, yer true British 
 bar bangs the lot. 
 
 16 . 
 
 I miss it, my pippin, I miss it ; the baccy, t’.ic barney, the 
 beer. 
 
 The chumming, the chaff at the counter, — tiny do it so 
 diflerent ’ere. 
 
 Still I’m going it nobby, dear boy, and you know there are 
 capers in Parry 
 
 That — well, mum’s the word. More anon. 
 
 Toot d voo der hony wotsername, ’A R R Y. 
 
’Jlrra;) ” ^aCf a6^ froiat "^unc^.” 
 
 47 
 
 2. AT THE PARIS 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 1 . 
 
 D ear charlie, 
 
 You’ll twig by the pajicr this comes from a 
 Parry hotel ; 
 
 It’s the great “ Continongtal,” my j^ippin’, the pick of the 
 proper and swell. 
 
 I’m a doin’ my Parry on prance, I can tell yer, dear boy, 
 and no kid ; 
 
 And an English Milord on the scoop carn’t be equalled at 
 blueing a quid. 
 
 2 . 
 
 Oh them precious spondulicks, old pal, ’ow they ’andicaps 
 dashers like hus ! 
 
 Still I’ve spread mj’self out pooty sparkling, dear boy, and 
 it might ’ave bin wus. 
 
 There’s a party I know lives in Parry, got pieces, and well 
 in the swim. 
 
 And this pal’s put me up to a lot I should never ’vc seen 
 but for him. 
 
 EXHIBITION. 
 
 3. 
 
 This ’ere Grand Expersition, dear boy, is a town i 
 in itself, and no kid. \ 
 
 I 
 
 If you’d wandered about it for hours on the ’unt ' 
 for a friend, as I did. 
 
 You’d have thought ’twas as big as all Brompton, 
 with Battersea Park, say, chucked in. 
 
 To do the tiling proper all round would want 
 weeks and a hatful of tin. 
 
 4 . 
 
 There’s miles of it, Charlie, I tell ye. It covers 
 the big Champ der Mar, 
 
 And stretches hout like a lai’ge Hoctopus ’eaveii 
 alone knows ’ow far. 
 
 I quite lost the run of it, swelp me, found Guide 
 Books and Plans little use, ' 
 
 And the paths was that endless and gritty I 
 wore out my best pair o’ shoes. 
 
 5. I 
 
 I 
 
 Bazaar bizness, lots on it? Yus; but there’s 
 larks in them bloomin’ bazaars. 
 
 Some sights as would knock a mere j uggins, and 
 made even ’Arry sec stars. 
 
 Arab dancers, dear boy, dark-eyed donas in 
 shawd-patterned togs on the twirl. 
 
 One on ’em a fair champion wriggler ; I got 
 reglar mashed on that girl. 
 
 6 . 
 
 Not our form of the mazy, my lad ; she tceto- 
 tumed about on her toes. 
 
 Whilst her mates drummed and scraped like 
 Jemimer. ’Twas one of the rummiest shows, 
 
 A gal with her body all hinges aint my style of pardner, 
 exact. 
 
 But if dancing means wild wiggle-waggle, she did take the 
 cake, that’s a fact. 
 
 7. 
 
 The East must be ’ot and no herror ! but podgy young 
 minxes arf drest, 
 
 A-wobbling their ’ips to wild music seems nuts to the swells 
 of the West. 
 
 Whether Tunis or Egypt perdooced ’em their ways wos not I 
 
 pooty or nice, j 
 
 And for beauty a ice-gal from Peckham would lick ’em two I 
 times out of twice. I 
 
 I 
 
 8. I 
 
 Then the Tower, dear boy ! Ah, that Tower ! I guess I’ve | 
 
 the gift o’ the gab, 
 
 But this ’ere is a case where description falls flat as a sole 
 on a slab. 
 
^ari*a6^^ from “ ^mxclx 
 
 It’s a bloominger sky-scraping Topper; Jack’s Beanstalk in 
 iron ! Oh my ! 
 
 Good old Babel may take a back seat, for the Eiffel is boss 
 of the sky. 
 
 9 . 
 
 Just fancy a big iron 
 tortoise a-straddle 
 in Trafalgar 
 S(piare, 
 
 AVith a lighthouse of 
 girders and rivets 
 about arf a mile in 
 the air 
 
 Aj)ereh on its back ; 
 all Bank Holiday 
 chucked into lifts 
 and let loose, 
 
 ’I’o grub, swarm, and 
 cackle, all over it ! 
 
 Fancy — but lor, 
 wot’s the use? 
 
 10 .' 
 
 Fancy chucks U]> the 
 l)iz as too big for 
 her. Paris jest now 
 is the Tower. 
 
 The Champ may be 
 like a bazaar, and 
 the7?o>’ der Boolontj 
 like a bower. 
 
 But to eat, drink, and 
 smoke, on tlic 
 Eiffel, and bra g f>f 
 the “stages”you’vc 
 done. 
 
 Is the treat of the 
 whole blooming 
 show, and the pick 
 of the whole bloom- 
 ing fun. 
 
 11 . 
 
 To grub arf a mile 
 in the air on a 
 balcony ’ung in 
 blue space. 
 
 With mankind like 
 l)lack beetles below, 
 and the clouds 
 ne.crly flicking yer 
 face, 
 
 Gives yer storberries ejuite a fresh flaviour, and lends a 
 new charm to yer smoke. 
 
 From the to]) of the Eiffel, old pal, all the world looks a 
 jolly good joke. 
 
 AA'hen you go to a Show, my dear boy, and must travel about 
 it by rail. 
 
 And take trips — say, from Tunis to Java, a cove’s parts of 
 
 sjjcech seem to fail. 
 
 Illustration from "Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 If I })iled it on thick 
 for a ream, I should 
 still ’ave a lot left 
 to pile. 
 
 So we’ll jest leave new 
 Babel a bit, and 
 trot back to tlie 
 city awhile. 
 
 13 . 
 
 I’ve done all the 
 Cafi/s in turn, 
 mate, and as to 
 the tipples — well, 
 there ! 
 
 ’Ardly know ’ow I 
 worked through 
 ’em, Gharlie, and 
 managed to keep 
 on my hair. 
 
 N arsty sy ruj)y mucks, 
 many on ’em ; the 
 waiters are slippy 
 and neat. 
 
 But I couldn’t, some- 
 how, make ’em see 
 as they mixed all my 
 lotions too sweet. 
 
 14 . 
 
 Here, Gassong ? sez I 
 — “ Via Mossoo !” — 
 Now, reejarday, sez 
 I, “ mony on fony,” 
 
 Donnay mor uny — er 
 — squash — 7 >ar 
 trow doo, ler — er — 
 last was like treacle 
 gone wrong. 
 
 Didn’t twig, but fell 
 back uj)on “ Com- 
 m 0 n y i ” the 
 Frenchified form of 
 our “ Wot ? ” 
 
 I fell back ujion a 
 “ Bock,” sort o 
 beer as is prime 
 Avhen it isn’t too’ot. 
 
 In fact, mate, I Bochd it tremenjus, for wosn’t it sultry ? 
 Ah, just ! 
 
 And the fust thing I picked up in Parry, dear boy, wos a 
 thunderin’ thust ! 
 
a 1 ‘ta 6 b from 49 / 
 
 I ’ad Bocks on the Bullyvards, Bocks on the Towei-. at all 
 the rum shows, 
 
 In fact, Charlie, “ Hangcore ung Bovl / ” wos my motter from 
 starting to close. 
 
 1 ( 3 . 
 
 Wot I like about Parry, dear hoy, is the general al frid-g all 
 round. 
 
 {Alfrislg means out in the open) wherever yon sit there’s a 
 sound 
 
 Of feet and _tial-ers (that’s cabs), rustling leaves, chinking 
 glasses, and song, 
 
 And I must say the slapuppcst lark is to sup at a Caffg 
 Chantong. 
 
 17 . 
 
 Our “Healtheries” game 
 wasn’t in it with — 
 say the ^‘Ambassa- 
 dors.” Ah ! 
 
 Fancy pouching your 
 ju'og on a terrace, 
 with crack ( ’omic 
 Singers lah-hah ; 
 
 Green leaves, pooty 
 women, gay mashers. 
 
 Tam-tam! Patata ! ! 
 
 Patapovf 1 1 1 
 
 Great Scott ! I could go 
 it for hages, if only 
 I’d more of the oof. 
 
 18 . 
 
 Then the Caffy Ameri- 
 can, Charlie ! My eye 
 and a bandbox, dear 
 t>oy. 
 
 Talk of Lumps of 
 Delight ! It’s all 
 dazzle and yum-yum, 
 a place to enjoy ; 
 
 The crame der lar crame 
 of the I’osy and rortj’, 
 mate. Thanks to my 
 friend, 
 
 I ’ad wot is ere called the 
 ongtray ; and him and 
 me went it, no end. 
 
 19 . 
 
 Swell furniture, Charlie, soft swabs, and the air full of 
 I frolic and hzz ; 
 
 ! Sleek waiters with list-slipper foot falls, but snide, and 
 well up to their biz. 
 
 Like a helegant droring-room party, but rollicking, yus, and 
 song jane. 
 
 Which means free-and-easy, my pippin, swell dresses, and 
 tubs of champagne. 
 
 20 . 
 
 I wasn’t (juite fly to the patter, not always, French chaff 
 may be prime, 
 
 But it flew a bit over my ’ed, and I felt in a fog arf the time. 
 Still, when one of the ladies, a sparkler, got (pioting “ Two 
 Lovely Black Eyes,” 
 
 ^Vy, it put me at ’ome in a jiff, though I answered “ 0, wot 
 a Surprise ! ” 
 
 21 . 
 
 At night-time they squat at round tables of marble, mate, 
 under green trees. 
 
 The Frenchies, men, women, and young ’uns, in parties of 
 twos or of threes. 
 
 Buz-wuz goes the Bully- 
 vai’d Inistle, click- 
 clack go the voytnres, 
 and loud 
 
 Above leaf-rustle, glass- 
 chink and chat sounds 
 the tramp of the 
 orderly crowd. 
 
 22 . 
 
 Spicy cards, snapping 
 cigarette - cases, rum 
 h images, all sold as 
 free 
 
 As shirt-studs or sticks 
 ill Cheapside ! There 
 ain’t no bloomin’ 
 fiddlcdedce 
 
 Of mealy mock-modesty, 
 Charlie, about the 
 dashed Froggies, 
 that’s flat, 
 
 As their funny ajichees 
 or posters will prove. 
 But no more about 
 that. 
 
 23 . 
 
 The Bullywards do me a 
 treat, mate, and so 
 they do Billy Bolair. 
 You know Billy; an old 
 pal o’ mine. Well, I 
 tell yer, old man, I 
 did stare 
 
 When a-settin one night in a Cafly a doing my smoke and 
 my wet, 
 
 I lifted my lamps and saw Billy. We did a good chi-ike, 
 you bet ! 
 
 24 . 
 
 Watcher, Billy, old Luster ! ” says I, “ you in Parry, like 
 all the herleet ! ” 
 
 Yus,” sez Billy, “Jee sicee ay Jee rest, for a fortnit. This 
 is a rum meet. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
50 
 
 fx*om ^uxxcB.” 
 
 4w •> 
 
 Uiicin‘a6 
 
 
 V:-- Z ■ 
 
 ^ "'z'i' 7 'i^ ^^^iii/i ' 'a f> 
 i,fy ^ 
 
 A\ ot’s yer pison, oKl pal?” I was on; and the way wc two 
 spread ourselves out, 
 
 And wont for more Hocks and loud barnies, estonisliod llie 
 (lassongs, no doubt. 
 
 25 , 
 
 Our true English manner of greeting, a dig in the ribs and 
 a 'owl. 
 
 Seemed to kibosh the Ercnehinen completely, and some on 
 ’em did a fair scowl, 
 
 “ 5 ah I ” scz Hilly to me, 
 
 .‘lotfer voc/iy, — though 
 some seemed to twig ; 
 they’re dashed quick — 
 
 *’ Their hail when thev 
 meet is a smack on 
 each cheek, ’Arry.” 
 
 Made me quite sick ! 
 
 26 . 
 
 Me and Hilly made quite 
 a sensation along of 
 our style and our togs. 
 
 They carnt do the heasy 
 dayfjajay in check 
 suits and rounders, 
 them Frogs. 
 
 And my stror and striped 
 flannels fair flum- 
 moxed ’em. Scissors ! 
 our style made ’em 
 stare 
 
 More than all the 
 Moors, Arabs and 
 Chinamen found in 
 that rum Roo (hr 
 Ciiire. 
 
 27 . 
 
 Hill and mo did that 
 cpiarter eompletely. 
 
 I lode races in (pieer 
 Chinese cars 
 
 I^*''awn by lemon-skinned .Johnnies in ’ats like hextinguishers. 
 Made ’em see stars, 
 
 Vt e did, at the caffays and sing-songs, a gammon der rarri/'s 
 all there. 
 
 Hut when ’Any is well on the swivel he makes Cairo 
 donkey-boys stare. 
 
 28 . 
 
 They are nice cups of tea, and no hcrror, fair cautions for 
 patter and cheek. 
 
 Then, — luit, there, 1 can’t tell yer a tenth of the larks if I 
 yarn for a week. 
 
 It’s a reglar fust-class fair eye-opener; a Hig Thing, dear 
 boy, and no kid. 
 
 I emit patter or picture it out, and you couldn’t catch on if I did. 
 
 riustration from “Punch," by C. Keene. 
 
 It’s the whole world packed into a field, spreadiu’ out by 
 the side of the Seine, 
 
 A Babel of talk, with the Tower chucked in, travelled over 
 by train, 
 
 J'ldl of palaces, parks, and pavillious, bazzars, buffets, bras- 
 .serics - Lor I 
 
 When I foxed the whole thing from the Eiffel, it struck even 
 ’Arrv with hor. 
 
 80 . 
 
 The ]) 0 ople swarm in 
 in their ’undreds of 
 thousands, and yet 
 there’s no squeeze, 
 ’Cos the place seems 
 like all out-of-doors, 
 with its parks, pooty 
 gardens, and trees ; 
 Itomes here, towers 
 yonder, big sals, 
 monstrous galleries, 
 theatres — yus 
 And enough grubbing 
 places chucked in, 
 mate, to fead ’arf a 
 town without fuss. 
 
 31 . 
 
 If you get tired of 
 padding the hoof, 
 there are foiooey 
 roolongs all round, 
 IJke big prambulators, 
 dear boy, which 
 blowscd coves shove 
 along without sound. 
 1 didn’t (piite cotton 
 fust off, for I felt like 
 a kid with his miss. 
 Hut when you've been 
 hours on the trot you 
 will find you might 
 ea.sy do wus. 
 
 32 . 
 
 I find Harry grows on yer — fast ! It’s a place as fer soon 
 git to love ; 
 
 There is always some fun afoot there, as will keep a chap 
 fair on the shove. 
 
 Pooty scenery ’s all very proper, but glaciers and snow-j)caks 
 do pall, 
 
 And as to yer bloomin’ Black Forests, the Bor der Boolong 
 beats ’em all. 
 
 33 . 
 
 Arter all, there is something quite ’ome-like in Parry — so 
 leastways I think ; 
 
 It’s a jilace where you don’t seem afraid to larf ’arty, or tip 
 gals the wink ; 
 

 ?•> 
 
 ^ a t‘ fa 5 s fro m 
 
 
 ^HuxcB. 
 
 Sort o’ sail Jaio'ij feeling about it, my pippin’ — you know 
 wot 1 mean. ] 
 
 You don’t feel too fur from old Fleet Street, steaks, “bitter,” | 
 and “ God Save the Queen !” | 
 
 34. I 
 
 When your Britisher travels, he travels, but likes to bo 
 Britisher still ; 
 
 ^Vith his Times and his “ tub ” he is ’appy ; without ’em | 
 he’s apt to feel ill. ! 
 
 Wy, when I was last year in Parry, I went for a Bullyv'ard j 
 crawl j 
 
 One night aider supper, wdien who should I spot but my pal 
 Bobby Ball. 
 
 He wos doin’ the gay at a Caffy, was Bob, p^tli/ vair, and all 
 that, 
 
 Togged u[) to the nines with his claw-hammer, enff-shooters, j 
 
 gloves, and crush-hat. | 
 
 “‘Elio, Bobby, my bloater!” I bcllered ; and up from his ! 
 
 paper he looks. j 
 
 Ah ! and didn’t we ’ave a rare night on it, Charlie ! We j 
 both know oiir books. 
 
 36. 
 
 But wot do you think Bob was reading ? The I'imes ! I 
 could twig it in once. 
 
 He might ’ave ’ung on to Git Btars, or the Fiijyero , — Bob 
 ain’t a dunce — 
 
 But lor ! not a bit on it, Charlie ; the Britisher stuck out 
 to rights ; 
 
 'Twas John Bull’s big, well-printed old broad-sheet ! Jest 
 one of the touchingest sights ! 
 
 37. 
 
 Tortoni’s is all very spiffing, the Bully vard life is A 1, 
 
 And the smart little journals of Pan-y, though tea-paper 
 rags, is good fun ; 
 
 But a Briton abroad is a Briton ; chic, sjiice, azure pictures, 
 rum crimes, 
 
 Is all very good biz in their way, but they do not make up 
 for our Times ! 
 
 38. 
 
 1 return, mate, tomorrer — wus luck 1 There’s enough to fill 
 up all next week, 
 
 France has taken the bun with this Show, and her Tower is 
 somethink uneek. 
 
 I may drop yer a line or two more, when I’m back, about 
 wonderful Parry, 
 
 But no more at present, dear boj-, excejd Vive lah bell 
 Fi mice ! from Yours, 
 
 ’A R R Y. 
 
 3. IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, 1 can tell yer, 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C- Keene. 
 
 EAR CHARLIE, 
 Yon heard 
 as I’d left good old 
 England agen, I’ll 
 bo bound. 
 
 Not for Parry alone, 
 mate, this time — 
 I’ve bin doing the 
 R e g 1 a r Swiss 
 Round. 
 
 Mong Blong, Alare de 
 Glass, and all that, 
 Charlie — guess it’s 
 a sight you’d enjoy 
 
 To sec ’Any, the His- 
 lington Alasher, 
 togged out as a 
 Merry Swiss Boy. 
 
 ’Tis a bit of a stretch from the “ Hangel,” a jolly long journey 
 by rail. 
 
 But I made myself haffable like ; I’d got hup on the topping- 
 cst scale 
 
 And the way as the 
 passengers stared 
 at me showed I 
 wos fair on the rap. 
 
 I’alk of hups and 
 downs, Charlie ! 
 North Devon 1 
 found pooty steep, 
 as you know. 
 
 But wot’s Lynton 
 roads to the Halfts, 
 or the Torrs to tint 
 blessed A'oixng 
 Frow 1 
 
 1 got ’andy with hal- 
 penstocks, Charlie, 
 and never came 
 much of a spill ; 
 
 But I think, artcr all, 
 that, for comfort, I 
 rayther prefer 
 Primrose. ’111. 
 
 [old chap ; 
 
 Illustration from Punch,” by C. Keane. 
 
52 
 
 "5^aCra6^ from 
 
 But that’s o>itry noiat, didn’t yer know ; keep my pecker linj) 
 [)i’oper out ’ere. 
 
 ’Arry never let on to tliem Swiss as he felt on the swivel, 
 — no fear ! 
 
 When 1 slipped dow n a hloomin’ crevassy, I <fi<l do a bit of a 
 ’owl, 
 
 On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, 
 like a cat on the prowl. 
 
 Might suit Mister 
 Manfred, it may 
 be — he didn’t seem 
 nuts on his life ; 
 
 But give me rabbit- 
 potting in Devon, 
 where rocks is 
 not edged like a 
 
 knife. 
 
 9 . 
 
 (Jot arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie — Ouidc ' ’Ad a try arter Idle- 
 swore ’twas :dl my hown fault, wise, too — sort o’ 
 
 Cos I would dance, and sing ioo-ml-li-efy, arter he’d bordered fluffy -leaved, snow- 
 
 a halt. ! coloured flower — 
 
 Awful gonojflis, them (luiiles, and no herror; they don’t ’All the mugs seem to 
 know' their place, not a mite, set heaps o’ store 
 
 And I’m dashed if this cad didn’t laugh (with the rest), ’cos by — 1 sent a Iflt on 
 I looked sech a sight. to Bell Bower, 
 
 0. Though she would 
 
 Father Christmas not in it with me, Charlie — sort of big Jirefer a camelia. 
 
 snowball on legs ; i calls all them 
 
 And co5/, Charlie ? Flasks was no use, could ha’ gurgled forren gals “ cats ; 
 neat Irish in kegs. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 Still, 1 wosn’t much ’urt, mate, thanks be — only needled a much t)f 
 
 bit in my ])iide, 
 
 .\nd I soon got upsides with the I>arty, and fair took it hout 
 of that ( Juide. 
 
 7. 
 
 He’d a mash at Chermooney — neat parcel enough, though in 
 course not my style ; 
 
 ( 'ouldn’t patter her lingo — wus luck ! — but 1 eovhl do the 
 lardy, ami smile ; 
 
 .\nd that Merry Swiss Boy got so jealous, along o’ some 
 caj)ors o’ mine, 
 
 'I’hat I’m sure, if he’d twigged arf a chance, he’d a chucked 
 r.m slaj) into the Rhine. 
 
 8 . 
 
 'Phen I tried Shammy-hunting, old pal, but I didn’t make 
 much of a bag. 
 
 Stalking curly-’orued goats in a country all precipice, bice- 
 hill, and crag. 
 
 AVonder what she’d ha’ said to sec me spooning round ’midst 
 short skirts and long plaits ! 
 
 10 . 
 
 'Phey’d a bit of a Buy-a-broom flaviour, and seemed a mite 
 wooden to kiss ; 
 
 But a gal’s a gal all the world hover. In Sw itzerland, ’Arry 
 is Swiss. 
 
 Y us, the country of Shallys and Shammys is jest a bit trying, 
 no doubt ; 
 
 But there’s larks to be ’ad near Mong Blong, if a party 
 knows what he’s about. 
 
 n. 
 
 ’Ad enough on it arter a fortnit, tlimigh. Scenery’s all 
 mighty fine. 
 
 yer 
 
 Halpine Club bizness 
 is boko, and not in 
 my line. 
 
 I remember them Caftys, 
 dear boy, Jioo der 
 Caire and the ’Power, 
 so, thinks 1, 
 
 Slippin’ ’ome I'll take 
 France on the wa}', 
 and go in for a bit of 
 a fly. 
 
 12 . 
 
 1 done Barry a treat, 
 mate, this time. ’Ad 
 a ride in the Bor dei’ illustration from “~unch," by C. Keene. 
 Boolong ; 
 
afCa6s 
 
 -from 
 
 7 ? 
 
 58 
 
 You may see, by the And you’ve got to be fly to their meaning afore you can 
 sketch I’ve in- make the tiling lium. 
 
 closed, as I came I kep’ on button-holing old bufters to find out my way 
 i about town, 
 
 , And sailed briskly along fur as “ Fsker — ?” when, ’ang it ! 
 j I mostly broke down. 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 out pcrticular 
 strong. 
 
 It is honly bus Eng- 
 lish can ride. Frogs 
 ain’t in it ah shovel, 
 yer know. 
 
 They in fack always 
 fails in Ler Spoj-t, 
 though they gives 
 Bull a lead at Ler 
 lio ! 
 
 13 . 
 
 L'Horlofje ain’t arf 
 bad. Snakes ! sech 
 voices ! The cackle 
 and gag, too, fust- 
 rate : 
 
 iMy Parisian pal ’elped me out, but my larf was sometimes 
 a bit late. 
 
 And so flummoxed the Frcnchies a few; one old chap in 
 blue blouse and cropped hair 
 
 :Must ha’ thought me a walking conundrum, to judge by his 
 thunderstruck stare. 
 
 14 . 
 
 I was togged in stror ’at and striped flannels ; I’d ’ad th.e 
 straight tip from a chum ; 
 
 I cried, “ Beast ! ” — that’s the French for Hangore, quite O.K., | 
 though I own it sounds rum, 1 
 
 I gave mouth to the Pa-ia-ta chorus, T slapped the Garsong ! And chi-iked lar lierpoohUclc a bit for her luck in jest keepiu’ 
 on the back ; | hi power. 
 
 And, sez I, “ Sa>/ ler jolliest lark, que jaij roo poor hell; tom, ' The Bullanger boom was a fizzle. They say he’s mopped out ; 
 
 17 . 
 
 Esher too, with a gur- 
 gle to follow, don’t 
 fetch ’em, these 
 Frenchies, not much ; 
 
 “ Conny par ” comes a 
 great deal too often, 
 and then a cove feels 
 out of touch. 
 
 If you want to make 
 love, find yer way, or 
 keep check on the 
 nuggets 3’ou spend, 
 
 You must put in the 
 patter 0. K., mate, or 
 somehow j'ou emue 
 out wrong end. 
 
 18 . 
 
 ’Ad a turn at the okl 
 Expersition, bid one 
 larst good-bye to the 
 Tower, 
 
 that’s a fack ! ” 
 
 13 . 
 
 I duunow ; 
 
 But it wouldn’t surprise me, my pi[ipin, to see him yet 
 
 Don’t fancy he twigged, not 
 percisely. But, lor’, them 
 French waiters is snide, 
 AVith their black Hetoii 
 jackets, white aprons, 
 and trim “ mutton choj)- 
 per ” each side. 
 
 At the Ckiffys, dear boy, ’arter 
 twelve, it’s a wonder to 
 see ’em waltz round 
 AATth a tray-full of syrups and 
 strors, with no spillings, 
 and ’ardly a sound. 
 
 IG. 
 
 Bit confusing at fust, the 
 French lingo ; their pos- 
 ters an’ cetrer looks rum. 
 
 Bossing the Sliow. 
 
 ’Owsomever, 
 
 19 . 
 
 I’m 
 
 back 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 Old England and Hisling- 
 ton ’Ighway, dear boy. 
 
 ’Tisu’t Swiss by a lumj), but a 
 glass at the Hangel is wot 
 1 enjoy, 
 
 You don’t feel at home, arter 
 all, at (.'hermoony, nor 
 even in Party, 
 
 And “ ’Omc, sweet ’Ome,” do 
 come most sweetly, 
 thougli on a haccordion, 
 to 
 
 ’ A R R Y. 
 
“’Jlri'p’’ ^iia£t'a6s from ‘"Wuncl).” 
 
 POOTY WOM^N. 
 
 ■♦V 
 
 1 . 
 
 D ear charije, 
 
 ] send ye tlie photers you arsked me to git, 
 in your last. 
 
 ! They’re a nice little lot, and no eiTor ; the pink of the swell 
 ' and the fast ; 
 
 ' Which the two nowadays is so mi-^ed, it’s no use to try 
 drorin’ the line. 
 
 I There in parties as don’t like the “ blend,” but their huni- 
 I buggin’ notions ain’t mine. 
 
 2 . 
 
 I I am nuts on nice gals, as you know 3 })Ooty faces, and 
 I figgei-s, and that. 
 
 Are things as I tumble to quick ; I’m a ’ot ’un, mate, all 
 
 round my ’at. 
 
 And 1 liold that this photygraff fakement is })i’opcr; it gives 
 yei' a peep 
 
 At a lot as you couldn’t be fly to no otherways — not on the 
 cheap. 
 
 3 . 
 
 I’liat’s it, don’t yer know ! Done on c.invas these prime 
 ’uns ’ud cost, oh ! a pile. 
 
 But now, for a bob, you can twig ’em familiar like, doing a 
 smile. 
 
 Or tipping the wink confidential, as if you wos one of their 
 lot, 
 
 And figged out in wot tliey calls JinhahiUc, took, 1 should 
 say, when it’s ’ot. 
 
 4 . 
 
 1'lic tip-tops are losing their stiffness; the grand highty- 
 tighty don’t pay ; 
 
 Which is wot, as I’ve mentioned afore, is t!ie ’(q)eftdlcst mark 
 of the day : 
 
 I’m a bit of a bloomin’ feelosopher, Charlie, my l)oy, as you 
 know. 
 
 And there’s lots to be learned from the text of “One sliillin a- 
 })iece, all this row.” 
 
from WuncB.” 
 
56 "3i5aCt*a6^ from 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by John Leech. 
 
 7- It’s that and the spicej-cut toggery fetches me, Charlie, 
 
 111 course their sole aim’s to oblige /ms; they carn’t care that’s poz, 
 
 a cuss for the cash. And if you don’t say werry much ditto, yon ain’t arf the 
 
 With the batch as I sends jer per post you’ll be able to cut ’ot ’un you ivos. 
 
 quite a dash, 10. 
 
 And astonish the rurals a few, as they mayn’t be quite up to “ Pooty souls!” When I sits with my halbnm, jest like 
 it yet, that old bloke in the play. 
 
 With the sight of the town’s latest belle ivee-e-a-v'ee with (A nice cup o’ tea t/iat old Mivvey !) I feel as we’re on the 
 
 the bally's last pet. 
 
 I ’ave heal’d soapy sneakers protest, and 
 declare the whole thing infry dig, 
 
 But I tliink they ’ad best stow their ser- 
 mons ; I do ’ate a sport-spiling 
 prig ! 
 
 If the Swcllesses liJ^-es to be looked at 
 in attitoods yum-yum by bus. 
 
 There’s no gent with a taste ’ud object, 
 tliough they hoglcd a ’undred times 
 wiis. 
 
 i>. 
 
 Wliich they can cast sheep’s eyes and 
 no kid, the perfession don’t touch 
 ’em at that. 
 
 But a pooty gal, gentle, or simple, as 
 carn’t use her glims is a flat. 
 
 lustration from “Punch,” by John Lesch 
 
 right lay. 
 
 — Don’t know, as the tub-thumpers’ 
 r spout, that the lion lies down with 
 
 the lamb, 
 
 '• X Blit Socierty’s “ lions,” at least, wag 
 their tails on the cheap, and that's 
 jam. 
 
 11 . 
 
 Wot the ’usbands and brothers thinks 
 on it is more than yours truly can 
 tell. 
 
 But I s’pose one must pocket some 
 pride, if one’s game is to smack of 
 the Swell. 
 
 It ain’t any use to go sticking up 
 “ private ” on all o’ your doors, 
 
 ’Cos yer sec if the public means twig- 
 ging, sech posters it jolly soon 
 floors. 
 
“’JVrvp” froiir »7 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by G. du Maurier. 
 
 12 . 
 
 The old “ Privacy ” game is played out, for Socierty’s now 
 a Big Show, 
 
 And if you can’t stand Trotting Out, you won’t Score, 
 chummie, not worth a blow. 
 
 You’ve got to be “looked over,” Charlie, yus, whether you’re 
 “ strong men ” or lords. 
 
 And Swell Duchesses one of these da}’s will ’ave models at 
 Madam Two-swords! 
 
 13 . 
 
 And wy not, my ]»ippin1 It’s pleasant to give so much 
 pleasure all round. 
 
 Wot was Beauty fori To be looked at! She knows 
 
 it, too, that I’ll be bound. 
 
 Lor ! didn’t them Goddesses like it, perticular Venus, old 
 pal 1 
 
 Yah ! $ke didn’t ’ide upon Ida from Paris. Not that sort of 
 gal. 
 
 14 . 
 
 Do ycr mean to tell me them Greek ladies we all make 
 so much of — in stone — 
 
 Didn’t know ’ow to tog for the market, or ’adii’t good 
 eyes of their own 1 
 
 Wosn’t Fryknee a fair female masher, who, if she’d a blow 
 on the beach. 
 
 Knew as much about hankies and wind-force as them 
 pooty pets of John Leech 1 
 
 15 . 
 
 True, gals don’t wear crinolines now, Charlie ; that ain’t no 
 hodds dontcher know 
 
 Like the lady in Longfellow’s poem that know jest ’ow much 
 they’d best show. 
 
 And they’ll show it somehow, bet your buttons ! / don’t 
 wear jicg-tops and long ’air 
 
 But — I know ’ow to hoglc the donas, though not with Tom 
 Tit’s gloomy stare. 
 
 16 . 
 
 We’re more thorough paced dashers, us !Mashers, than 
 Tommy, and if I was ’ot, 
 
 On being in that there balcony, you bet I'd he there, like a, 
 shot, 
 
 Cos wy 1 By the wave, in the ball-room, or jest wheresomever 
 they bo, 
 
 Pooty women is there to be loolced at, and our biz, dear boy, 
 is to see ! 
 
 17 . 
 
 I say it’s cue more to our side ; shows the toffs give us 
 credit for taste ; 
 
 And I flatter myself I’ve a heye for the turn of a hankie or 
 waist : 
 
 There is one in your lot jest my sort, if 1 made up my book 
 for to marry ; 
 
 You see if you’re able to spot ’er. Meanwhile, I’m 
 
 Yours, nobbily, ’ A R R Y . 
 
58 “’JVrtrt;” '58afCa6s from 
 
 ON UAW ANO 0RDE:R. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 1 . 
 
 D ear oharlie, 
 
 Ascuse shaky scribble ; I’m writing this 
 letter in lied. 
 
 Went down to tlie Square, mate, — last Sunday, — 
 and got a rare clump on the ’ed. 
 
 Beastly shame, and no error, my jiippin ! Me 
 cop it ! It’s too jolly rum. 
 
 When a reglar Primroser gits toko, one wonders 
 wot next there w'ill come. 
 
 2 . 
 
 It wos all Bobby’s blunder, in course ; Mister 
 Burleigh and me was “ mistook.” 
 
 1 Avent jest for a lark, nothink else, and avos quietly 
 slinging my ’ook, 
 
 AVen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon 
 drcqiped smack on my nob. 
 
 And ’ere I ham, tucked up in bed, Avith a jug of ’ot 
 spruce on the ’ob. 
 
 3 . 
 
 ’Ard lines, ain’t it, Charlie, old hoyster ? A barney’s 
 a barney, dear boy. 
 
 And you knoAv that a squeege and a skylark is 
 AA'ot I did alAA’ays enjoy. 
 
 A street-rush is somethink splendacious to fellers 
 of sperrit like me. 
 
 But dints and diakkylum plaster Avill spile the best 
 sport, dontcher sec. 
 
 4 . 
 
 No, no, LaAv and Herder’s my motter, but avcu a spree’s on ’Arry’s 
 there ; 
 
 And 1 thought, like a lot of the SavcIIs, I shoAild find one that 
 day ill the Square. 
 
 Lord Mayor’s Day Avith a scrimmage chucked in is a hopening 
 too temptin’ to miss. 
 
 More pertickler Aven all in “the Cause” — LaAv and Hordcr, I mean, 
 mate — like this. 
 
 I desjiises the Poor and the Spouters ; to see their ’cds jolly aacII 
 broke 
 
 Is fun, but a bash on one’s ow'a — aa ell, there, some Iioaa- it spiles the 
 Avhole joke. 
 
 6 . 
 
 The Perlice aa'os too dashed hindcrscriminatc, that’s Avhere it Avas, 
 my dear boy ; 
 
 AVich they couldn’t take me for a Paddy or ’unihugging “ Out 
 of Employ.” 
 
 Don’t you fancy the “ Hunemployed ” bunkum has 
 nobbled me ; not sech a mug ! 
 
 And as for O’Brien and his britches. I’d keep all 
 sech jossers in jug. 
 
 illustration from “Punch," by C. Keene. 
 
 AV’hen that cop got his hand on my collar he ought to ’ave knoAA'cd 
 like a shot. 
 
 By the Astrykan only, that / wasn’t one o’ the Sochorlist lot. 
 
F^aCfa6^ from 
 
 59 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 7 . 
 
 I ’iite ’em, dear Cdiarlio, I ’ate ’em ! They wants to stf p 
 piling the pelf. 
 
 Wen that is wot every dashed one of ns longs to be piling 
 hisself. 
 
 No, Wealth is wot be kep np and pertccted, wotcvcr 
 
 goes wrong ; 
 
 And to talk of abolishing Millionaires, Charlie, is coming it 
 sti'ong. 
 
 8 . 
 
 They arc like prize Chrysanthemums, Charlie; for, if you 
 want them, dou'tcher see, 
 
 You must uij) otf some thousands of buds to let one or two 
 swell and grow free. 
 
 Jest yon turn a lot loose in yer garden, and that ain't the 
 way as they'll grow ; 
 
 But if ’undreds weren't sacrificed daily to one, you would 
 not get no Show. 
 
 9 . 
 
 That’s Life in a nutshell, my bloater ! All wants to he fust, 
 but they can’t ; 
 
 Most on us is wasters ; the game of the snide nn’s to he a 
 Prize Plant. 
 
 Then you’re mugged uj> to-rights and made much of, but, 
 oh, you must be a big ass, 
 
 If you fancies as daisies is dealt with like horchids, and 
 grown under glass ! 
 
 10 . 
 
 Ask Gentleman Joe. He knows better, he’s finding it out 
 more and more. 
 
 And his Kadical rot about “ ransom ” won’t turn np agen ; 
 it don’t score. 
 
 “ Law and Holder’s ” the tip I can tell yer. T’ln on to it 
 fairly for one. 
 
 And there’s ony one thing I finds fault with ; they do 
 rayther bnnnick np Fun ! 
 
 11 . 
 
 If hcYcry think’s on the Peeler is always at 
 
 ’and— 
 
 And that's I,aw and Hordcr you bet, as heknown to the rich 
 and the grand — 
 
 It’s O.K. for the ’oldcrs of ochre, who, if they’ve a mind for 
 a s])rec. 
 
 Can always palm-oil Mr. Peeler, and do it upon the Q.T. 
 
 1 - 2 . 
 
 But bus, Charlie, bus? I likes Horder, and likeways I'm 
 l>artial to Law, 
 
 Wen it means kce[)ing viy swim all clear, and a muzzling 
 my henemy’s jaw. 
 
 Wy, nothink could easy be niccrer, then, don’tchcr sec, dear 
 old j>al ; 
 
 But supposing that game interferes with ?ny larks, or my 
 lush, or my gal ? 
 
(io “’Jlfvir’ ^af£a65^ fxom 
 
 16 . 
 
 That is if you’re poor, or won’t “ j)art,” like lost 
 gals, in the usual style. 
 
 Oh, a Bobby’s a brave chap, no doubt, and most 
 liatt'ablc — when on the smile. 
 
 But you run thwart his hintcrcsts awkward, or give 
 ’im too much of j'our jaw. 
 
 And j-ou’ll find when he means ’aving Order, 
 a Bobby can make ’is own Law ! 
 
 17 . 
 
 Dan the Dosser, who knows the Scpiare well, ’ aving 
 slop in it night arter night, 
 
 Sez the Oolden Calf safely lailed in by the Law is 
 a ’cavenly sight. 
 
 Acos Hordcr is ’Laven’s first Law, and, in conscr- 
 kense. Law Earth’s first hordcr ; 
 
 The Calf may sit safely hinside, whilst Scape- 
 goats is kep bout of the border. 
 
 18 . 
 
 I can’t git the ’ang of his lingo ; his patter’s all 
 picter somehow. 
 
 And wot he quite means by that Calf, mate, / 
 dunno no more than a cow. 
 
 But the Scapcgcait, that’s him, I su]>pose, and he 
 looks it ; it’s rough, as he says ; 
 
 No marbles, no lodging, no grub, and that sort o’ 
 thing kep up for days ! 
 
 13 . 
 
 Local Hopshun, for instance, or Betting 
 Laws, Brize Fight prevention, and such. 
 That some mealy-mouthed nuigs are so 
 sweet on; if they cop \is, life ain’t wuth 
 much. 
 
 Contrydicting myself? Oh, well, Charlie, 
 I’ve sech a blarmed pain in my ’ed. 
 
 And life looks a queer sort of mi.\ wen 
 you boss the whole bizness from bed. 
 
 14 . 
 
 But you nnnj ’avc a bit too much Bobby ! 
 
 Slops am come a rush, and no kid ; 
 
 I once knew a “ Copper’s Nark,” Cliarlie, 
 old chaj) as earned many a (pud 
 By jackalling the Crushers at Court time ; 
 
 and if you got him on the beer. 
 
 He could t'll yer some “Tales of the 
 Force” as would make Monty 'Williams 
 look (pieer. 
 
 1 . 1 . 
 
 They looks pooty patrolling the cr''ss- 
 ings, and 'aiiding young ladies acrost. 
 Or lassooing little dawgs, Charlie, or 
 ’eljting poor kids as git lost. 
 
 Awful kind to respectable “drunks” late 
 at night wlicn there's tips to be ’ad. 
 
 But you give a cross Crusher the needle, 
 and see where he’ll land yon, my lad ! 
 
 Illustration from “Punch/* by G. du Maurler. 
 
'5ScirCa6^ from ci 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 19 . 
 
 But the Scapegoats must not 
 kick up shindies, and stoj) 
 up our streets and our 
 squares, 
 
 That’s a moral. Perhaps 
 there is grahliers as wants 
 to swag more than their 
 shares. 
 
 I ain’t nuts on sweaters myself, 
 and I do ’ate a blood-suck- 
 ing screw, 
 
 Who sponges and never stands 
 Sam, and whose motto’s “ all 
 cop, and no blue.” 
 
 20 . 
 
 Still, this ’ere blooming Han- 
 archy, Charley, won't do at 
 no tigger, dear Ijoy. 
 
 A bit of a rorty romp round 
 in the open a cliap can 
 enjoy, 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by L. Sambourns. 
 
 But brickbats and hoyster- 
 knives ? Walker ! Not on 
 in that scene, mate, not me ! 
 
 And a bash on the nob with 
 a batton is not my idea of 
 a spree. 
 
 21 . 
 
 To bonnet a hjt of old idokes 
 and make I'etticoats squeal 
 is good l)iz. 
 
 But a Crusher's ’ard knuckles 
 a crunching yer scrag? No, 
 I'm blowed if i/int is ! 
 
 Let ’em swarm “ in tiieir 
 thousands ” — the mugs ! — 
 and tlieir black and red flags 
 let ’em carry ; 
 
 But wen they are next on the 
 job they will ’ave to look 
 wide-oh I for 
 
 ’A R R Y. 
 
6-2 “"Jli'm;” '23aCCa6s from “ ^uitc^.” 
 
 ON ANGUNG. 
 
 — >4. 
 
 illustration from “Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 1 . 
 
 D ear Charlie, 
 
 ’0\v arc ycr, my arty, and ’o\v docs this 
 Summer suit i/ou } 
 
 ’Selp me never, old j)al, it’s a scorcher ! 1 lap Icinon- 
 
 sqnosh till all’s bine, 
 
 And then feel as dry as a dust-hin. Want all Spiers 
 and Rond’s upon trust. 
 
 For it do make a ’ole in the ochre to deal with a true 
 fust-class thvist. 
 
 2 . 
 
 Rut it’s proper, dear hoy, yus it’s ])roper, this weather 
 is, took on the ’ole. 
 
 And for ’oliday outings and skylarks it sets a chaj) fai)' on 
 the roll. 
 
 Where d’yer think as 1 spent my last bust up ? 1 know 
 
 you’d be out of the ’unt 
 
 If yon guessed for a ’ole month o’ Sundays. I passed it, old 
 ])al, ui a inuit ! 
 
 0 Walker ! ” sez you, “ that’s ’is gammon ! ” No, 
 ( 'harlie, it’s righteous, dear boy. 
 
 It’.s (juite true that to chivvy Thames hanglers is 
 jest what we used to enjoy. 
 
 R ,'kerlek that old butler at Richmond, and ’ow we 
 shoved foul of his swim, 
 
 .\nd lost him a middlin’-sized l)arbcl and set his 
 straw tile on the .skim ? 
 
 4 . 
 
 1! angling isn’t my mark, that’s a moral, and tisher- 
 men mostly is fools ; 
 
 To chatf ’em and tip ’em the kibosh is one of mv 
 reglarest rules ; 
 
 .\iid it ain’t onr sort only as does it, yon take the 
 non-anglers all round, 
 
 .\u' you’ll tind that in potting the puntist they’re 
 ’Andes right down to the ground. 
 
 i). 
 
 All onr chicest stock-jokes and pet patter they 
 mops up like mugs as they are, 
 l-’or they cut their own chaff, eh, Charlie 1 
 
 not borrow' it all from the bar. 
 
 Rut I’ve seen little toffs in white weskits a slinging 
 
 O O 
 
 oi/>- lingo to-rights, 
 
 .\hout colds, iind cock-salmons, and shop 'nns ; it’s 
 one of the rummiest sights. 
 
 t). 
 
 ( )f course they all trot out Sam Johnson ; you 
 know the tine crusted old wheeze. 
 
 I chucked it one day at a cove as lay stretched at 
 the foot of some trees. 
 
 “ Fool at one end and worm at the other ? ” sez he. “ Ah, 
 that’s neat, and so new. 
 
 And as you seem to he worm a/ul fool, one may say ‘ex- 
 tremes meet,’ Sir, in yo».” 
 
 7 . 
 
 ’Owsomever, /’ve ’ad a day’s ’ooking at last, and it wasn’t 
 arf l)ad. 
 
 You know since 1 turned Primrose Leaguer I’ve mixed with 
 the 'I’oppers, my lad ; 
 
 .\nd one on ’em, ]ial of the Prince, I believe, got Jack .loiter 
 : a ))ass 
 
 I I'orsome tine ])reserved waters ; no pay, mate, and everythink 
 fixed u]) fust-class. 
 
 8 . 
 
 ' Jack arsked me and Bell Bonsor to jine him, and secin’ it 
 ' didn’t mean tin, 
 
 .\nd the ’ole thing seemed swell with good grubbing and 
 lots o’ prime lotion chucked in, 
 
froiat ‘^^unc^.” os 
 
 lustration from “Punch/’ by John Leech. 
 
 I was “ on ” like a shot. 
 Bell’s a bloomer, and 
 Jack, though a bit of 
 
 a j^'g. 
 
 Is too long in the purse 
 to let slip ; so the 
 game looked all proper 
 and snug. 
 
 Jack’s a straw-thatched 
 young joker in gig- 
 lamps, g;ood-uatured, 
 and nuts on the 
 sport. 
 
 He turns np with four 
 rods and two hait- 
 cans, and tackle of 
 eveiT flashed sort. 
 
 Such rum-looking gim- 
 cracks, my pijipin ; 
 lines coiled up in 
 boxes and books. 
 
 And live - bait, and 
 worms all a-wriggle, 
 and big ugly bunches 
 of ’ooks. 
 
 
 
 10 . 
 
 I was a’most afraid to 
 set down, for the 
 things seemed all 
 over the shop, 
 
 And Bell she kep startin’ 
 and squeak in’, a-settin’ 
 me fair on tlie ’op ; 
 
 Fust a tisli as dabbed 
 
 1 flop on her ’at, then 
 
 ' a ’ook as got snagged 
 in ’er skirt. 
 
 It was one blessed 
 squork all tlie time, 
 mate, tliough nothink 
 It ucl\ ’;'.pponcd to 
 ’nrt. 
 
 n. 
 
 I’ooty spot ; sort o’Like 
 green and windin’, with 
 nice quiet “swims” 
 all about. 
 
 Though I must say I 
 missed tlie 'riiaincs 
 gamniock.s, tlie snide 
 comic song, and the 
 s’, out. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by C Keens. 
 

 from 
 
 
 Illustration from "Punch,’ by John Leech. 
 
 13 . 
 
 ‘ Strike ! ” sez I, “ Wy 
 you’re like the old 
 ■worrier in Keene’s 
 rummy cut, dontcher 
 know, 
 
 “ Wliocalled up the jiocr 
 tackle merchant at 
 three in the mornin’, 
 ho ! ho ! 
 
 “ To !>■/?■//.•« — at his own 
 hloomin<r sign, as was 
 dangling in front of 
 the shop.” 
 
 Larf t fVe made the 
 whole place I'ing a- 
 rousev, till Joltcr im- 
 plored ns to stop. 
 
 14 . , 
 
 Jolter looked jest a 
 mosscl disgusted, and 
 turned a bit rusty, for 
 him, 
 
 AVhen we made the punt 
 rock in our romps, 
 whichhe said was “dis- 
 tuibing the swim.” 
 
 No larks at the locks, 
 no collisions, no land- 
 ings for lotion, you 
 know, 
 
 And, but for Miss Bell 
 and the bottle, it 
 might a bin jest a bit 
 slow. 
 
 12 . 
 
 lint the prog was A 1, 
 and no kid. 'riiough 
 Jack stuck to his 
 tackle like wax, 
 
 Bell and me was soon 
 stodging like winkles ; 
 that gal did make 
 ])lay with the snacks. 
 
 “ Strike !” cries Jack — 
 “ you’ve a Lite ! ” 
 “Yes, I know it,” sez 
 I, with my mouth 
 ' full of ’am. 
 
 “ Wot do you think, 
 Miss B. ? ” — and she 
 larfed till ’er cheeks 
 went like raspberry 
 jam. 
 
 Illustration from ‘'Punch,” by C. Ksene. 
 
from 
 
 6 ') 
 
 And w’lieii he had hooked a fine perch, and Miss Bell made a 
 dash at the line, 
 
 And the fish flobbered back with a flop. Jack’s escape from a 
 cuss cut it fine. 
 
 15 . 
 
 Then he pulled in his “trimmer,” and, scissors! a jolly 
 big jack came 
 abo.ird, 
 
 AV i c h 11 o p p e (1 
 round us, and 
 showed his sharj> 
 teeth, till Miss 
 Bonsor went 
 pasty, an d 
 roared. 
 
 Bcg’lar shai k ; 
 made a grab at 
 my pants when 
 1 tried to cut in 
 to Bell’s aid ; 
 
 And I’m blowcd if 
 she didn’t turn 
 raspy, and chaff 
 me for being 
 dfmid. 
 
 16 . 
 
 Artcr this things 
 appeared to go 
 quishy ; Bell’s 
 skirt ’ad got 
 slimed, dontcher 
 see. 
 
 And she vowed it 
 wasspiled, while 
 Jack looked jest 
 as though he 
 could scrumpli- 
 cate me. 
 
 So sez I, “ Let us 
 turn up this 
 barney, and 
 toddle ashore 
 
 . for some grub 
 
 And we pulled up 
 the stone and 
 thehanchor,and 
 made a bee-line 
 for our pub. 
 
 II iiiiiMiiiiii liilii mill 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by Linley Sambourne 
 
 Bless yer ’art, ’cos we struck arter dinner, and chucked up 
 the perch for a spree, 
 
 And took a turn round, me a pulling, that Jack looked as 
 blue as could be. 
 
 18 . 
 
 Your Angler’s a mug, my dear Charlie, there ain’t arf 
 
 a doubt about 
 that. 
 
 Leastways ’cc])t 
 such chaps as 1 
 sec, with a ]iipe 
 and brown seal- 
 skin cap. 
 
 As jest looked like 
 Bill Sikes out a 
 ’ooking. Sez L 
 ‘“Gentle Craft,' 
 eh, old flick I ” 
 
 Mister Sikes over- 
 heard mo, I 
 fancy, and didn’t 
 the language 
 come thick 1 
 
 10 . 
 
 But a josser who 
 thinks it prime 
 sport if he sits 
 in a punt and 
 succeeds 
 
 In dropping his 
 ’ookpootyrcghir 
 and keeping it 
 clear of the 
 weeds ; 
 
 Or who fancies 
 hissclf a fly- 
 fishei’, aud ’ooks 
 a old lady’s stror 
 ’at,- 
 
 IVy I say they are 
 fair s a r m 
 d lifters, and reg- 
 lar top-row ’mis 
 £ t that. 
 
 17 . 
 
 20 . 
 
 The dinner soon smoothed down our feathers, though Jack 
 ’ad a sad sort o’ look. 
 
 Selfish fellows these hanglers arc, Charlie, they carii’t keep 
 their heye off the ’ook. 
 
 They’re general butts, my dear C'harlie. A Pat with a 
 ragged Cauheen, 
 
 Will know’ that a bloke with a basket and ’ooks round ’is ’at 
 must be green, 
 
Illustration from ‘•Punch,” by C. du Mauricr. 
 
 And Siuuly will sniff oi;t the soft in ;i Saxon as carries a 
 rod, 
 
 And if he ain’t kidded and eodded arf ont of ’is life, wy it’s 
 hodd. 
 
 il. 
 
 AVc chaffed poor young Joltei', a good ’un. Miss Bell and 
 yours truly got thick, 
 
 AVen ] told ’er ’er li]>s was true “ spoon ’’-bait, .sAc twigged 
 wot I meant pooty (piick. 
 
 “ Oh, 1 carn’t abide anglers,” she whispered, “ they’re flabby 
 and cold like tbeir fish, 
 
 ’Ow I wish Jack would jest sling ’is ’ook, and leave bus, — 
 well, you know wot I wish.” 
 
 And we managed to nip in fust-class, and so gave Alastcr 
 Jolter the slii). 
 
 It give ’im the needle in course, being left in tbe lurch in 
 this way, 
 
 But the petticoats know wot is wot, and so wot's your true 
 ilasher to say ? 
 
 23 . 
 
 Jack ’as cut me since then at the “ Primrose ( 'lub,” bust ’ini ! 
 I lion’t care a toss ; 
 
 Your angler is ahrayft a juggins, so /le’s no pertikler big loss. 
 
 Bell Bonsor is mashed on me proper, and if I’d a fancy to 
 marry, 
 
 But if there’s a fish as ain't easy to ’ook it’s 
 
 22 . 
 
 “Oh, I’m fly, dear,” sez 1, with a ’ug. So I nobbled the 
 Ouard with a tip. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 ’ A R R Y . 
 
1 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 '28a€l'a6s from “B^u»tc6.” o? 
 
 ON A ’ 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by J. F. Partridge. 
 
 ouse: ooat. 
 
 1 . 
 
 EAR CHARLIE, 
 
 It’s ’ot, and no error ! Summer on us, at last with a 
 bust ; 
 
 Ninety odd in the shade as I write. I’ve a ’ed, and a thunderin’ 
 thust. 
 
 Can’t go on the trot at this teinpryture, though I’m on ’oliday 
 still ; 
 
 So I’ll pull out my cslcrytor, Charlie, and give you a touch of my 
 (piill. 
 
 2 . 
 
 If vou find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that (luill, dear old 
 pal ; 
 
 Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as 1 write like a gal. 
 
 Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. 
 Well, it’s true ; 
 
 But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do ? 
 
 Didn’t s])ot 3'ou at ’Enlejq old man— -1 did ’opeasj’ou’d shove in j’our oar. 
 e ’ad a rai'e barney, I tell }’ou, although a bit spiled In' the poiu’. 
 
 ’Ad a invite to ’Opkins’s ’Oiise-boat, iirime pitch, and swell part}', }'er 
 know. 
 
 Rooty girls, first-class gargle, and music. I tell x er xvc did let things 
 go. 
 
 4 . 
 
 Who sez ’Knlcy ain’t up to old form, that Society gives it the slip? 
 
 AVish you could ’ave seen us — and heard us — old bo}', when aboard of 
 our ship. 
 
 Peonies and poppies ain’t in it for colour with our little lot. 
 
 And with larfter and banjos permiskus xve managed to mix it up ’ot. 
 
 f). 
 
 Aly blazer was claret and mustard, my “ stror ” was a rainbow gone 
 wrong ; 
 
 I ain’t one who’s ashamed of his colours, but likes ’em mixed middlingish 
 strong. 
 
 ’Emmy ’Opkins, the fluff}'- ’aired daughter, a dab at a jjunt or canoe. 
 
 Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy 
 blue. 
 
 G. 
 
 Fair mashed on yours truly. Miss Emmy ; but that’s only jest by the wa}', 
 
 ’Arry ain’t one to brag of lumy four tunes ; but xvot I was wanting to say 
 
 Is about this here “ spiling the River ” which snarlers set down to 
 our sort. 
 
 Bush ! Charlie, extreme ’I’ommy rot ! it’s these sniffers as xvant to 
 spile sport. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by J, B. Partridge. 
 
C8 " '5j5cit‘t‘a6i5 fx*om 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by A. C. Corbould. 
 
 Want things all to thcirselves, these old jossers, and all on 
 the strictest Q. T. 
 
 Their idea of the Thames being “ s})iled ” by the smallest 
 suggestion of spree, 
 
 Wy it’s right down redikhis, old })al, gives a feller the 
 ditherums, it do. 
 
 I mean going for them a rare bat, and I’m game to wire in 
 till all’s blue. 
 
 8 . 
 
 Who are they, these stuckuii2)y sni])stcrs, as jaw abo\it quiet 
 and peace. 
 
 Who would silence the gay “ constant-screamer ” and lino 
 the 'I'hames banks with perliee ; 
 
 Who sneer about “ ’Arry at ’I'lnley,” and snitf about “cads 
 on the course,” 
 
 .Vs though it meant “Satan in Eden”? I’ll ’owl at sich 
 oafs till I’m ’oarsc ! 
 
 0 . 
 
 Sera]) o’ sandwich-greased ])aper ’ll shock ’em, a ginger-beer 
 bottle or “ Bass,” 
 
 Wot ’a])pens to droj) ’mong the lilies, or gits chucked aside 
 on the grass. 
 
 Makes ’em gasp like a frog in a frying-])an. Br-r-r-r I Wot 
 old mivvies they are ! 
 
 (lot nerves like a cobweb, 1 reckon, a smart Banjo-tw'ang 
 niidccs ’em jiir. 
 
 10 . 
 
 I’m Toffy, you know, and no flies, Charlie ; swim with the 
 swells, and all that. 
 
 But I’m blowe<l if this bunkum don’t make me inclined to 
 turn Radical rat. 
 
 “Riparian Rights,” too ! Oh Scissors! They’d block the 
 Backwaters and Broads, 
 
 Because me and my pals likes a lark ! Serve ’em riglit if 
 old Burns busts their ’cards ! 
 
 11 . 
 
 Hum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters I There’s Daimel, 
 tlie Dosser, old chap. 
 
 As you’ve ’eard me elude to afore. Fair stone-broker, not 
 wuth ’arf a rap, — 
 
 Knows it’s all Cooper’s ducks with him, Charlie ; won’t I'un 
 to a pint o’ four ’arf. 
 
 And yet he w ill slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans 
 with his charf. 
 
 12 . 
 
 Sez Dannel — and dash his darned clieek, Charlie 1 — “ Mon- 
 keys like you ” — meaning Me I — 
 
 “(dive the latter-day Mammon his chance. \our idea of a 
 lark or a spree 
 
 Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, ami Nastinc.ss I Dives, who 
 Wiints an excuse 
 
 For exclusiveness, finds it in yon, you contemptible coarsc- 
 cackling goose ! 
 
^at‘Ca6s ft-om “'3*uitc6.” 
 
 13 . 
 
 “ Riparian rights ? That’s the patter of Ahab to Naboth, 
 of course ; 
 
 But ’tis pickles like you make it plausible, louts such as 
 you give it force. 
 
 You make sweet Thames reaches Gehennas, the fair Norfolk 
 Broads you befoul ; 
 
 You — you, who’d make Beulah a hell with your blatant 
 Bank Holiday howl ! 
 
 14 . 
 
 “ Decent property-owners abhor you ; you spread your 
 coarse feasts on their lawns. 
 
 And ’Arry’s a hog when he feed;?, and an ugly Yahoo when 
 he yawns ; 
 
 You litter, and ravage, and cock-shy ; you romp like a satyr 
 obscene. 
 
 And the noise of you rises to heaven till earth might blush 
 red through her green. 
 
 15 . 
 
 “You are moneyed, sometimes, and well-tailored ; but come 
 you from Oxforil or Bow, 
 
 I You’re a flaring offence when you lounge, and a blundering 
 pest when you row ; 
 
 j Your ‘ monkeyings ’ mar every pageant, your shindyings 
 j spoil every sport, 
 
 j And there isn’t an Eden on earth hut’s destroyed wlien it's 
 I ’Arry’s resort. 
 
 , 16 . 
 
 “ Then monopolist Mammon may chuckle, Riparian Ahabs 
 rejoice ; 
 
 There’s excuse in your Caliban aspect, your hoarse and ear- 
 torturing voice. 
 
 You pitiful Cockney-born Cloten, you slum-bred Silenus, 
 ’tis you 
 
 Spoil the silver-streamed Thames for Pan-lovers, and all the 
 ' nymph-worshipping crew !” 
 
 ' 17 . 
 
 ' I’ve “reported ” as near as no matter ! I don’t hunderstand 
 
 I more than ’arf 
 
 j Of his patter; he’s preciously given to pot ry and classical 
 j charf. 
 
 ' But the cheek on it, Charlie ! A Stone-broke ! I should 
 
 I 
 
 ] like to give him wot for, 
 
 j Only Dannel the Dosser’s a dab orf of whom t’ain’t so easy 
 to score. 
 
 Gfl 
 
 18 . 
 
 But it’s time that this bunkum was bunnicked, bin fur too 
 much on it of late — 
 
 Us on ’Opkins’s ’Ouse-boat, I tell yer, cared nix for the ink- 
 spiller’s “ slate.” 
 
 I mean doin’ them Broads later on, for free fishing and 
 shooting, that’s flat. 
 
 If I don’t give them dash’d Norfolk Dumplings a doing. I’ll 
 eat my old ’at. 
 
 19 . 
 
 Rooral quiet, and rest, and 
 refinement 1 Oh, let ’em go 
 home and eat coke. 
 
 These fussy old footlers whose 
 ’air stands on hend at a row- 
 de-dow joke, 
 
 'I’he song of the skylark sounds 
 pooty, but “ skylarking ” 
 song’s better fun. 
 
 And you carii’t <lo the rooral 
 to-rights on a tiact and a 
 tuppenny luin. 
 
 21 . 
 
 As to colour, and kick-ui), an 1 
 sing-song, our party was f: ir 
 to the front ; 
 
 But we wosn’t alone ; lots of 
 toppers, in ’Ouse-Boat, or 
 four-oar, or punt, 
 
 Wos a doin’ the rorty and rosy 
 as lively as ’Opkins’s lot. 
 
 Ah ! the swells sling it out jxioty 
 thick ; they ain’t stashed by 
 no i!dv-.spiller’s rot. 
 
 Illustration from Punch/’ 
 by J. B. Partridge. 
 
 21 . 
 
 Bright blazers, and twingle-twang banjoes, and bottles of 
 Bass, my dear boy. 
 
 Lots of dashing, and splashing, and “ mashing ” are things 
 every man must enjoy. 
 
 And the petticoats ain’t fur l)chind ’em, you bet. M bile 
 top-ropes I can carry. 
 
 It ain’t soapboard slop about “Quiet” will jut the clear 
 kibosh on 
 
 ’ A R R Y. 
 
70 
 
 a f f a 6 s 
 
 fx'om 
 
 "UjHutcft.” 
 
 
 ON TH^ GUORIOUS TW^UFTH, 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by J. P. Atkinson 
 
 ) EA1{ CHAltLIP; 
 
 Xo Parry for me, mate, not this 
 season leastways — wns luck ! 
 
 At the shop I’m employed in at present, the 
 hands has all bloomin’ 'well struck. 
 
 It’s hupset all our ’olidays, Charlie, and as to 
 my chance of a rise 
 
 Wot do i/ov think, old pal ! I’m fair llum- 
 moxed, ami singing, 0//, what a sur- 
 jirine 
 
 2 . 
 
 Tlicse strikes is becoming rare noosances, 
 dashed if tliey ain’t, dear old boy. 
 Tiiey’re all over the shop, like Miss Z<eo, 
 Mot street-kids seems so to enjoy. 
 
 Mugs’ game! They’ll soon find as the 
 marsters ain’t goiii’ to be M'orried and 
 welched. 
 
 And when they rob coves of their ’olidays, 
 ’ang it, the 3 ^ ought to be squelched. 
 
 I ’Owsomever, I’m mucked, that’s a moral. This doosid dead- 
 ! set against M’calth 
 
 I Is a sign o’ the times as looks orkud, and bad for the 
 I national ’calth. 
 
 I Their ain’t nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 
 ’ere bellercrs ban. 
 
 ' M'y, they’re down \ipon Sport, now, a pcltcr. Pciqjostcrous, 
 ain’t it, old man 1 
 ' 4. 
 
 j Pin a reading Fred ’Arrison’s kibosh along o’ “ The Feast of 
 , St. Crouse,” 
 
 I On the “Clorious Twelfth,” as he calls it; wen swells is 
 I fair shut of the ’Ouse, 
 
 ! Its Obstruction, and similar ’errors, in course they hikes off 
 j to the .Moors. 
 
 j Small blame to ’em, Charlie, small blame to ’em, spite of 
 1 tbe prigs and the boors ! 
 
 . 0 . 
 
 Yet this ’Arrison he sets his back np. Dry smug as can t 
 ’andlc a gun, 
 
 ' I'll bet Marlboro’ ’Onse to a bi’oomstick, and ain’t got no 
 I notion of Fun. 
 
 j Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;” that’s 
 wot he says, sour old sap 1 
 
 : Pet my boots as he can’t ’it a ’aystack at twenty yards rise 
 
 ' — eh, old chap? 
 
 k. 
 
 J/it/i sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather 
 and fur, 
 
 So long as yer never hi//s nothink ? Sech tommy-rot gives 
 me the spur. 
 
 Yah I Sceneiw’s all very proper, Init where is the genuine 
 pot 
 
 AVho’d pad the ’oof over the Moors, if it weren’t for the 
 things to be shot ? 
 
 7. 
 
 “ This swagger about killing birds is mere cant,” sez t’nis 
 wobbling old wag. 
 
 From .‘\rran he’d tramp to Dunrobin without the least 
 chance of a bag ! 
 
 “ Peaceful hills,” that’s his patter, my pippin ; no gillies, 
 no luncheons, no game ! 
 
 AVy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket ; it fills a true 
 Priton with shame. 
 
 8 . 
 
 Xo Moors for yours truly, wus luck ! It won’t run to it, 
 Clnu'lie, this round ; 
 
 Put give me my gun, and a chance, and I’ll be in the swim. 
 I’ll be bound. 
 
 ] did ’ave a turn some years back, though 1 only went out 
 with ’em once. 
 
 And 1 shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer 
 mai/n’t be a dunce. 
 
from 
 
 71 
 
 44 
 
 ’Jlvvr>” ^ilalTacS 
 
 '2)*itnclx 
 
 7? 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by John Leech. 
 
 9. 
 
 But the togs, Charlie ! Cut-away coat and a topper do tire 
 you a bit, 
 
 AViieu 3 'ou freeze to ’em all the year round, ’cept the few 
 weeks you’re fair on the flit. 
 
 That’s the wnst of a hoffice-stool, Charlie, although it means 
 two quid a week. 
 
 Gaffers do draw the line so at “mixtures, and billycocks.” 
 Bike their dashed cheek ! 
 
 10 . 
 
 Mine rucked when I turned np in trousers big black and 
 white pattern in checks. 
 
 And a new Norfolk jacket in plum-colour. “Hello, young 
 man !” sez old .Jecks, 
 
 “Bou’re a mixture of convict and chessboard ! We can't 
 have that sort o’ thing here.” 
 
 I believe the old buffer was jealous ! he thought I dressed 
 “ out of my s])hcre.” 
 
 11 . 
 
 But to trot to your tailor, quite airy, and border “ a soot 
 for the Moors,” 
 
 My it makes yer feel ’evenly, Charlie, as big, ah ! as all out 
 of doors. 
 
 Sez 1, “ ’eathcr-coloured and hca.sy, as rough as ycr like, 
 and on(j sivrei. 
 
 “ for I’m horf for a pop at the birds. Barks, and want you 
 to turn me bout neat ! ” 
 
 He did ! 1 saw several fair startlers in bags, spots and 
 
 stripes, blobs and gobs. 
 
 But not one so rel-erki/ as mine, as most on ’em was sported 
 by snob.3. 
 
 Such bounders, dear boy, as shoot at you, or claim every bird 
 as you drop. 
 
 Oh, a cad on the Moors is a noosance, as ought to be kep to 
 his shop. 
 
 13 . 
 
 My rig out was a picter they told me — deer-st;dker and 
 knickers 0. K. — 
 
 Briggs, Junior,” a lobsculler called me ; 1 wasn’t quite fly 
 to his lay ; 
 
 But Briggs or no Briggs 1 shajied spiftin, niagcnta-and-mud- 
 colour chocks. 
 
 Ah ! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer 
 the jirimest of jiccks. 
 
 14. 
 
 Talk of sandwigc.s, Charlie, oh scissors. I'd soon ha’ cleaned 
 out Charing Cross, 
 
 MTth St. Bancrust and Ludgit chucked in ; fairly hopened 
 the eye of the boss ; 
 
 Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry saltcr in 
 Thames Street. Bit warm 
 
 In his langwige occasional, Charlie, but ’arty and reglar 
 good form. 
 
IB a U‘a 6 S from “ Wmtclx” 
 
 
 1 ? 
 
 1 ;'. 
 
 Swells will pal in most anywhere now’ on the 
 chance of a gratis Big Shoot, 
 
 And there v'os some Swells with hns, I tell ver, I 
 felt on the good gay galoot, 
 
 But I fancy I got jest a morsel scrcwdnoodleons 
 late in the day. 
 
 For I pc])percd a hlohe in the hreeks ; he swore 
 bad, Init ’twas only his play. 
 
 16 . 
 
 Bairged a brace and a arf, I did, Charlie; not bad 
 for a novice like mo. 
 
 Jest a bit blown abont the fust two ; wanted 
 gathering np like, ycr sec. 
 
 A bird do look best with his ’cd on, dear boy, as a 
 matter of taste ; 
 
 And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my 
 natnral ’asto. 
 
 17 . 
 
 Never arsked me no more, for some reason. Bnt 
 what I would say is this here, 
 
 ’Arry's bin in this boat in his time, as in every 
 prime lark pooty near, 
 
 And when ’Arrison talks blooming bimknm, with 
 hadjectives spicy and strong. 
 
 About Sport being stoopid, and noisy, and vulgar ; 
 wy, ’Arrison’s wrong ! 
 
 llljstration froin “Punch," by C. Keens. 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 j 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ] 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 j 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 '^arfa6s from “ ?3 i 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,”, by J. P. Atkinson. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,” by J. P. Atkinson. 
 
 IS. 
 
 lie would rather .shoot hrokeii-dowii cab-hor.scs, — so the 
 mug tells us — than birds. 
 
 Well, they’re more in his line very likely ; that means, in his 
 o .vn chosen words. 
 
 He’s more fit for a hammy toor knacker than for that great 
 boast of our land, 
 
 A true British Si)ortsman ! (Ircat Scott ! It’s a taste as I 
 cavnt understand. 
 
 19 . 
 
 Fact is this here Fred is a Demmycrat, Positivist, and all that. 
 
 There’s the nick o’ the matter, the reason of all this un- 
 Fnglish wild chat. 
 
 He is down on the Aristos, ('hai-lie, tliis ’Arrison is. It’s 
 the Court 
 
 And the pick o’ the reerage Sport nobbles, and that’s wy 
 he sputters at Sport. 
 
 20 . 
 
 All a part of the game, dear old ];al, the dead-set at the j 
 nolde and rich. j 
 
 “ .Smart people ” are “ .Sports,” mostly always, and ’Arrison ‘ 
 slates them as sich. . 
 
 ’Ates killing of “beautiful creatures,” and spiling “the 
 Tummel in spate ” 
 
 With “drive.®,” champagne luncheons, and gillies I That'a 
 not wot sich slab dabtiers ’ate. 
 
 21 . 
 
 It’s “Privileged Classes,” my ])ip]iin, they loathes. Yer 
 can’t own a hig Moor, 
 
 ( )r even rentonc like my dry-salter friend, ifyer’umbleandpoor. 
 
 Don’t ’Arrison never eat grouse 1 Ah, you bet, much as ever { 
 he’ll carry. { 
 
 There’s “ poz ” for a Posit’vist, mate, there’s ’Arrison ki- 
 hoshed by ’ A R R Y . 
 
 I 
 
71 'SBatXabs fiom 
 
 ( 
 
 ON MARRIAGE. 
 
 ♦ 4 - 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 I. lustration from “ Punch,” by G. du Mauricr. 
 
 As you know, with the ladies all round ; carnt 
 resist me, tlic sweet little dears ; 
 
 I’lit ’ook on to one? Not me, Charlie : leastwavs, 
 I should 'ope not for years. 
 
 'I'rue, I did ta.kc her out on the trot, and I stood 
 her a bottle o’ fizz. 
 
 For old Suddlewig's “ warm,” and jiarts free, so 
 I thought as it might mean good biz. 
 
 More by token 1 dropped on that waiter ; “ Cham- 
 jiagne, and look slipjiy,” sez I ; 
 
 When he gives ns a look nj) and down, like, and 
 answers me short, “Ycssirl Dry !''’ 
 
 i. 
 
 I VOS dry, and no error, dear boy, and Miss ileg 
 ’ad a throat like ’ot ehalk ; 
 
 Hilt 1 never stand ipiestions from cads, so I jolly 
 soon put on the baulk. 
 
 “ Lor, ’Airy, yon can shut ’em np,” sez iliss i\Ieg, 
 with a sort of a blush ; 
 
 “Ah! you always may know a true swell by ’Is 
 stare, and ’is power to crash ! ” 
 
 r, 
 
 Cot that from the “Journal,'’ 1 reckon; but aii}'- 
 how, ’tisn’t fur out ; 
 
 Easy hairs and shar[> words scpielch the snobs. 
 Meg’s O.K., and knows what she’s about. 
 
 Hut, as J remarked to a toffess 1 onee met at 
 ’I’ennis, old tlick, 
 
 “ Since there’s heajis to be ’ad for the asking, m 3 ' 
 inotter is patience and pick. ’ 
 
 t. 
 
 D ear chahue, 
 
 Your lar.st vos a lark ; gave me fits and no 
 error, old pal. 
 
 You’ve ’card ’Any was ’ooked after all, and engaged to old 
 Suddlewig’s gal ? 
 
 Come now ! who are ycr gettin’ at, carnt }cr? Me make 
 up to Carrot}' l\Icg ? 
 
 Are you on the mug-lumbering lay, or has someone bin 
 pulling ymtr leg ? 
 
 2 . 
 
 Who give vou /hat orfice, dear boy? It is wonderful rum, 
 swelp me bob, 
 
 ’Ow these ’ere sort o’ things git about. Fact is, Charlie, 
 I’m fair on the job. 
 
 c. 
 
 Hun in blinkers at mv time of life? Trv the tandem with 
 vie in the shafts ? 
 
 I Not likely I I likes a short run with the trimmest of tight 
 ' little crafts ; 
 
 Hut one consort all over the course like, is not ’Arry's form 
 ly a luin]i ; 
 
 ’Ow covdd vou cmagine, dc.ar bey, as yours truly ’ad gone 
 olf his chum]) ? 
 
 t . 
 
 Is Marriage a failure, m 3 ' jiippin? “Oh, ask me anothci',” 
 sez von ; 
 
 “ Tliat kibosh ’as ’ad a long inning.s, and wants 3 'orking 
 out.” Wcri'}' true ! 
 
u *> 
 
 JVrtn? " "^alTads tVom “ '3‘uncft 
 
 •>9 
 
 to 
 
 The “U. T.” is a regular niug-tnip, there isn’t a doubt about And the ochre slings in ijooty slick, it is blooming bad 
 
 ! bizucss to splice. 
 
 But you iniist lui’ bin reading it, Charlie, to go and book ; 
 
 vie foi a flat. Look at swells I Thri/ ain't in no dashed ’urry to church 
 
 8. I tlieirselves out of good fun ; 
 
 “ Is Marriage a failure ? ” old mivvies are asking. Of course And wy ? Clear as mud, my dear feller ! The cash keeps 
 
 that depends ; 
 
 em’ fair on the run. 
 
 illustration from “ Punch, " by C. Keene. 
 
 AVhen they do get stone-broke })rema- 
 toor like, as ’appeu it may to the 
 best. 
 
 Then they looks for a Missus with 
 money, and rucks in along o’ the 
 rest. 
 
 10 . 
 
 But the ruck is no place for a 
 racer as hasn’t yet parted with 
 pace. 
 
 Ain’t aged, nor yet turned a roarei’, 
 but still 'as a chance of the 
 mce. 
 
 AVhile a boss can find backers, dear 
 boy, it will run if it’s got any 
 blood. 
 
 And when no ’andicajiping won’t land 
 it, it's time then to go to the 
 stud. 
 
 11 . 
 
 1 mean ’aving a run for my money ; 
 no ’arness and nosebag for 
 me ; 
 
 Leastways not at present, my 
 pippin; I like to feel rorty and 
 free. 
 
 And the gals likes it too, I can tell 
 ycr; lor’ bless ycr, if 1 did a 
 splice 
 
 1 >'ycr think 1 should be so much 
 sought for, or found arf as jolly 
 and nice ? 
 
 M'ot mucks me, old man, is the manner 
 in which a chap gets the ott- 
 shniit 
 
 ■Vs soon as he’s labell'd “engaged,” 
 and so ’eld to bo out of the 
 ’unt. 
 
 But a dashing young feller like me, with good looks, and He may be jest as nice as Jemimer, all flarc-up, and cvery- 
 good ’ealth, and good friends, think fly. 
 
 Knows a trick that’s worth two on. it, Charlie. While life But when once he gits wot’s called feeonsoi/, the gals jolly 
 goes on nuttv and nice, soon do a guy ! 
 
! 7(i '5*5an‘a6s fi-om ’aHmcIx” 
 
 13 . 
 
 If this ’ere tommy-rot got about, mate — I mean my 
 engagement to Meg, — 
 
 It ’ml spile ’Arry’s game witli the gals wus than fits or a 
 (lashed wooden leg. 
 
 No; it’s “I’d be a butterfly,” Charlie, with me, for a long 
 time to eome ; 
 
 Married life may be ticketed honey, bnt I know it’s more of 
 a hum. 
 
 “Spoons” is proper; the best barney out, mate; but 
 marriage — that brings knife-and-foih. 
 
 Fancy carving for five, ])lus the Missus ! I tell you, old 
 pal, it means work. 
 
 You remember Bob Binks — a rare dasher ! fair filberts he 
 was on a s])ree, 
 
 .Now he ’as to grub seven, all t(j!d, and he ain’t five year 
 older than me. 
 
 15 . 
 
 Met him j’esterday, Cliarlie. “Well, Bobbie, ’ow trots it, 
 my to])per ? ” sez 1. 
 
 “Trot, ’Arry,” sez he, “ain’t the word; ’ardly runs to the 
 crawl of a fly.” 
 
 * He’d a hdjtron on, Charlie, and kicksies as must ha’ been 
 j cut by his wife, | 
 
 Him as used to sport Kino’s best dittos on week ihf^s And \ 
 that’s married life ! '• 
 
 ! It). i 
 
 i 
 
 ' “Wot, IS Marriage a failure?” ] chuckles. “ Oh, cheese it, j 
 old feller I ” sez Bob, j 
 
 And — he swore ’twas a cold iu the ’ead, bnt I’m blowcd if j 
 it wasn’t a sob. ' 
 
 “ Seven mouths, and six ^\eeks out of work, mate ! In 
 j Queer Street, and cleared of the quids ! i 
 
 I should just make a ’ole in the water, if ’tworn’t for the i 
 wife and the kids.” ; 
 
 i 
 
 17 . 
 
 I stood him a lotion, ]>oor beggar; he’d stood me a lot in 
 his time, j 
 
 l-'or I was jest fresh on the wai’-])ath when Bobbie was 
 fair in his ])i ime. 
 
 Croat Scott, wot a ]>attcr he ’ad, and a mouth on ’im, ah ! 
 like the (loose ; 
 
 ' .\nd now he wears old ’ome-made bags, and can ’ardly say , 
 
 I bo to a goose. 
 
i' 
 
 from “ '??mtctx” 
 
 18 . ; 
 
 21 . 
 
 “ The kids is the cruj: of tlie question,” says j\Irs. Lyim 
 Linton. In course ! 
 
 Bobbie Binks could ha’ told her that, Charlie, and put it 
 ■with dollops more force. 
 
 She’s a-teaching ’er grandmother, she is, although she's a 
 littery swell, 
 
 And as to “the State” steppin’ in, yah ! the State knows 
 its book fur too well. 
 
 19 . 
 
 If the couutry took care of the kids, and diworce was made 
 easy all round, 
 
 ^Vy, Fd marry, mate, early and often, and so would lots 
 more. I’ll be bound. 
 
 But, oh my, wot a mix, my dear Charlie ! Free Love and 
 Free Contract? Oh, yus ! 
 
 The Guvment as Grandmother’s <lear, mate, but wot would 
 it cost as a N uss ? 
 
 20 . 
 
 In one thing, old pal, I go pairs with this Mrs. Lynn Linton 
 exact. 
 
 I She sez it’s a — let’scc, wot is it? — a “physiological fact ” 
 
 : That some chaps who’rc fair flamers as lovers, are failures 
 
 I as ’usbands. That’s me ! 
 
 I So I mean spof)ning round like permiskus, and Mrs. L. L. 
 
 ' would agree. 
 
 i 
 
 Whether man’s poly — wot’s it? — by nature. I’m blowed if I 
 know, my dear boy, 
 
 But a man, if he isn’t a juggins, makes fair for one mark 
 — to enjoy. . 
 
 If I was a Toff and 'ad tin, I should do as the Toffs do, no ' 
 doubt. 
 
 Yank on to one gal, a fair screamer, and yet keep my 
 ogles about. 
 
 2*2 
 
 That’s wot I call genuine yiun-yum, fair rations all round, 
 and no kid ; 
 
 But it’s doosed expensive, dear boy, and not done on a 
 couple of quid. 
 
 Ah I a lot of highflyers is spiked for the want of the ochre, 
 wus luck ! I 
 
 Wot’s the good of a way with the women all round, when a 
 cove’s got the chuck ? 
 
 23 . 
 
 No, Charlie, the dowdy-domestic, pap-bowls, p’rainbcrlators, 
 and that. 
 
 Is not my idea of the rosy, so Meg don’t ’ook me for a flat. 
 
 If it ever shotdd run to a Wife, and — well, trimming.s, per- 
 haps I may marry, j 
 
 But till I can splice ah lah Toff, Charlie, no double-’arness j 
 for i 
 
 ’A R R Y. 
 
7S 
 
 fx'om 
 
 
 ON IMITATION. 
 
 Illustration from “ Punch,” by C. Keene. 
 
 1 . 
 
 D EAlt CHAULli:, 
 
 Your fciviour to ’;iiul in doo course as 
 the (luill-drivers say ; 
 
 Likeways also the newspaper cuttins enclosed. 
 
 You’re on Rummikey’s lay. 
 
 Awful good ou yer, Charlie, old chummy, to take 
 * so much trouble for me ; 
 
 Rut do keep yer ’air ou, dear ]>al ; I am still 
 riglit end tijipards, yer see. 
 
 You are needled along of some parties, — er course 
 you ain’t fly to their names, — 
 
 As has bin himitating Yours 'rruly. Way-oh ! 
 It’s the oldest o’ games, 
 
 Hiniitation is, Charlie. It makes one think Darwin 
 was right, anyhow. 
 
 And that most on us did come from monkeys, 
 which some ain’t so fur from ’em now. 
 
 3 . 
 
 You start a smart game, or a paying one — some- 
 thing as knocks ’em, dear boy, 
 
 Xo matter, mate, whether it’s mustard, or rhymes, 
 or a sixpenny toy ; 
 
 They’ll be arter you, nick over nozzle, the smug- 
 gers of notions and nips. 
 
 For the mugs is as ’ungry for wrinkles as broken- 
 down bookies for tips. 
 
 4 . 
 
 I Look at Dickens, dear boy, and Lord 'I'ennyson — ain’t they 
 bin copied all round '! 
 
 Wy, I’m told some as liked Alfred’s verses at fust, is now 
 sick of the sound ; 
 
 j All along o’ the parrots, my pijipin. Ah, that’s jest the 
 wust o’ secli fakes ! 
 
 I’eople puke at tlie shams till they think the originals ain’t 
 no great shakes. 
 
 5 . 
 
 ’Tain’t fair, Charlie, not by a jugful, Init anger’s all fiddle- 
 de-dee ; 
 
 'i'hcy may copy my style till all’s blue, but they won’t 
 discombobulatc me. 
 
 Names and metres is anyone’s props ; but of one thing they 
 don’t get the ’ang ; 
 
 'I'hey ain’t fly to good jiattcr, old pal, they ain’t copped the 
 straight gri fin on slang. 
 
 6 . 
 
 ’Tisn’t grammar and spellin’ makes patter, nor yet snips 
 and snaps of snide talk. 
 
 You may cut a moke out o’ pitcli-pinc, mate, and paint it, 
 hut can’t make it walk. 
 
 You may chuck a whole Slang Di.vionary by chunlis in a 
 stodge-pot of chat, 
 
 But if ’tisn’t a/ii’e ’tain’t chin-musie, but kibosh, and corp.sey 
 at that. 
 
 7 . 
 
 Kerrectness be jolly well jiggered ! Street slang isn’t 
 Science, dear pal. 
 
 And it don’t need no “glossery ” tips to liintcrprct my chat 
 to my gal. 
 
 I take wot comes ’andy permiskus, wolever runs slick and 
 fits in, 
 
 And when smngs makes me out a *• philolergist,” — snuffers ! 
 it do make me grin ! 
 
79 
 
 (,(. •> 
 
 'aJan'a6 
 
 
 from ■^‘uncb. 
 
 
 ]]. 
 
 Moresonieover, my boy, tlie old ’Airy— I do not dude 
 to Old Xick — 
 
 AVos tlie butt of the artists and writers, who slanged 
 him and made him cat stick. 
 
 But that ’Arry is “ planted,’’ my pippin, or marrieil 
 and put on the shelf. 
 
 I’m young ’Arry, the gent of the period, and, wot’s 
 more, I Kpmk for mijaeJf ! 
 
 My letters to you, mate, are Mo, as I ham, and they 
 tell their own tale. 
 
 Yus, that’s where the newness comes in, and I don’t 
 git the ’ump or go pale 
 
 Becos old writers chi-iked my namesake, or new 
 writers himitate me. 
 
 That’s wy, when I’m slated, my ])ippin, I take the ’ole 
 
 thing as a spree 
 
 Illustration from “Punch,’’ by C. Keene. 
 
 -Mister Plncii prints my letters, occasional, once in ,a 
 while like, dear boy ; 
 
 For patter’s like love-letters, Charlie, too long and 
 too frccpient, they cloy. 
 
 I agree there with Samivcl \Yller. Aly echoes I’ve no 
 wish to sto]). 
 
 But I’d jest like to say ’tisn’t me as is slopping all 
 over the shop. 
 
 Still theies fitness, dear boy, and loditncss, and some 
 of these josseivs, jest now, 
 
 AVho himitate ’Arry’s few letters with weekly slap- 
 dabs of bow-wow, 
 
 ’Ave about as much “ lit” in their “slang ” as a slop- 
 tailor’s six-and-si.x bags. 
 
 No, Yours Truly writes only to you, and don’t spread 
 /u's-self out in the Ma^s. 
 
 Arry’s bin on the toppy for years, ( 'harlie, long ere 
 Yours Truly was born. 
 
 Didn’t Leech ’ave a go at ’im often, and Keene ’old ’is 
 cad up to scorn, 
 
 Arry’s infant merstarch was made fun of soon arter 
 the Crimean AA’ar, 
 
 Yhen began “The Croat Beard Movement,” Charlie. 
 Them jiicters upon me do jar. 
 
 10 . 
 
 lut there’s ’Arrics and ’-\rrics, old oyster. You jest 
 take a trot through your “Punch,” 
 
 bid the way my name’s ’andled, old pardner, will set 
 your teeth fair on the scrunch, 
 
 AiTy’s ’at, ’Arry’s beard, ’Arry’s aitches ! You’ll nee lie 
 and say “ it’s too bad ! ” 
 
 hit there’s this to remember, my pippin, the 'Arry 
 of old u'os a Cad ! 
 
 Illustration from " Punch,” by John Leech 
 
80 
 
 from “^^uncd.” 
 
 , . 1 !• 1 1 . . ) ^ ^ iiiiiicl tlicii sliGntiiiiQtiiij Charlie ; it don’t do iimcli 
 
 It do give me the dithenuns, Charlie, it makes me feel ' ’urt, anyhow ; 
 
 ^ ^ quite (inisby snitcli, [ ^^as needled a trifle at fust, but I’m pooty scroodnoodleous 
 
 I’o see tlie fair rush for a feller as soon as he’s found a good now. 
 
 pitch. j-_ 
 
 Jest like anglens, old man, on the river ; if one on ’em sfiots I’m all right and a arf, mate, I am, and ain’t going to rough 
 j a prime swim, jjo i 
 
 And is landing ’em proper, you bet arf the others ’ll crowd Becos two or three second-hand ’Arrics is tipping the public 
 ' about him. stale beer. 
 
 Illustration from “Punch," by C. Keene 
 
 15. 
 
 But there s law for the rodsters. I’m told, Charlie ; so manv 
 foot left and right ; 
 
 And 3 on 11 sec the punts spotted at distance, like squodrons 
 of troops at a fight. 
 
 But in 1 radc, Art, and Littery lines, Charlie, ’anged if 
 there’s any fair plaj’. 
 
 And the eullcrablc himitation ” is jest the disgrace of I 
 the dat'. 
 
 16. 
 
 Sech scoots scurryfunging around on the gay old galoot, to i 
 go snacks ] 
 
 In the profits of other folks’ notions, have put 3 ’ou, old pal, ^ 
 in a wax. i 
 
 The old tap ’ll turn on now' and then, not too often, and as 
 for the rest, 
 
 The B. P. has a taste for sound tijiple, and knows when it’s, 
 served with the best. 
 
 IS. 
 
 If mine don’t ’old its own on its merits, then way-oh I for 
 someone’s as docs I 
 
 All CO]) and no blue ain’t my mottcr ; that’s all tommv-rot I 
 and buz-wuz. 
 
 'I’he pace of a yot must dei)ond on her lines and the canvas j 
 she’ll carry : 
 
 If rivals can crowd on more sail, w\' they’re welcome to 
 overhaul 
 
 ’ A R R Y. 
 
 BRADBURV, ACNEW, & CO. LD., rRINTERS, WIIlTErKtARS. 
 
LIFE’S 
 
 RACE A BATTLE, NOT A VICTORY. 
 
 IN THE RACE OF THIS LIFE, 
 
 END’S “FRUIT SALT” 
 
 Is an imperative hygienic need, or necessary adjunct. It keeps the blood pure, prevents and cures 
 fevers and acute imflammatory diseases, removes the injurious effects of stimulants, narcotics, such as 
 alcohol, tobacco, tea, coffee, by natural means — thus restores the nervous system to its normal con- 
 dition by preventing the great danger of poisoned blood, and over cerebral activity, sleeplessness, 
 
 irritability, worry, &c. 
 
 AT HOME, MY HOUSEHOLD GOO; ABROAO, MY VADE MECUM. 
 
 A G-£N!ERAL officer, ■writing from Ascot on Jan. 2, 1886, says: — '* Blessings on your * FRUIT SALT'I I trust 
 it is not profane to say so, but, in common parlance, I swear by it. Here stands the cherished bottle, bn the chimney-piece 
 of my sanctum, my little idol — at home, niy household gocT ; abroad, my inecum. 'Think not this the rhapsody of a hypochon- 
 
 driac. No ; it is onlv the outpouring of a grateful heart. The fact is, I am. in common 1 daresay with numerous old fellows of 
 my age (67), now and then troubled with a tiresome liver. No .sooner, Hom ever, do I use your cheery remedy, than e.\it pain — 
 * Richard is himself .again ! ’ So highly do I value > our composition, tluu, when taking it. I grudge even the sediment that will 
 always remain at the bottom of the glass. I give, therefore, the following ad\ice to those wise persons who have learned to 
 appreciate its inestimable benefits : — 
 
 “ \\lien ‘ ENO'S S.VI-'T ' betimes you take, j Bui drain the dregs, and lick the cuj> 
 
 No waste of this elixir make ; | (.)f this the perfect pick-me-up.” 
 
 Writing again on January 24, 1888, he adds : — “_D e.\r Sir,— year or two ago I addressed j’ou in grateful recognition of 
 the never-failing virtues of "your world-famed remedy. The same old man in the same strain now salutes you with the following : — 
 “ When 'Time who steals our years away, | Eno’s ‘ FRUIT SAL'T ’ will pro\’e our stay, 
 
 Shall ^teal our. pleasures too, And still our health renew.” 
 
 EUROPE, ASIA, AFRICA, AUSTRALIA, AMERICA. 
 rMPORTANT TO TRAVELLERS.—** Please send me half-a-dozen bottles of END'S ‘ FRUIT SALT.’ 
 
 I have tried 
 
 END’S ‘ FRUIT SAL'T’ in all parts of the world for almost every complaint, fever included, with the most satisfactory results. 
 I can strongly recommend it to all travellers ; in fact, 1 am never without it. Yours faithfully, “An Anglo-Indian Dfficial.” 
 
 THE SECRET OF SUCCESS. 
 
 STERLING HONESTY OF PURPOSE. 
 
 WITHOUT IT LIFE IS A SHAM! 
 
 “ A new invention is brought before the public, and commands success. A score of abominable 
 imitations are immediately introduced by the unscrupulous, who, in copying the original closely enough 
 to deceive the public, and yet not so exactly as to infringe upon legal rights, exercise an ingenuity 
 that, employed in an original channel, could not fail to secure reputation and profit.” — ADAMS. 
 CAUTION.— coih botth\ ami see that the Cnpptle is marked END'S FR U IT SAL T." Without 
 you have been imposed on by a ivorttdess imitation. SOLD BV ALL Cl I EM ISTS . 
 
 PREPARED ONLY AT ENO’S "ERUIT SALT” WORKS,' LONDON, S.E, 
 
 VERY OLD 
 
 HIGHLAND 
 
 VYHISKIES. 
 
 Years in IVood. 
 
 Age , .7 10 15 & 25 
 
 Price per doz. 48 /- 60 /- 72 /- 120 /- 
 
 Alt -eminent medical authority, in recommending the 
 moderate use of Whiskey, states that on no account should 
 \\’hiskey be used unless it is well matured. 
 
 Detailed Lists on Application to 
 
 MOREL BROS. GOBBETT & SON 
 
 (LIMITED), 
 
 210 8c 211 PICCADILLY; 
 
 18 & 19 PALL MALL; 
 
 ^ 143 REGENT STREET. 
 
 EY BONDED STORES, INVEENESS, N.B. 
 
 Sold only ni r-ounce Packet^/ and 4. R-ouitce, and i-lb. Tins, which keep the Tobacco in fiiw 
 smokin;; condition. Ai-k at ail Tobacco SeUers’, Stores, See., and lake no other. 
 
 SMOKERS ARE CAUTIONED AGAINST IMITATIONS. 
 
 The 'Genuine bears the Trade-Mark, ” Nottingham Castle." on every Packet and Tin. 
 PLAYER S NAVY CUT CIGARETTES, in Packets containing 12, and Boses of 24. 
 
 The following extract from “REVIEWS OF Ke views'," Nov.. 1850, is of Interest to everj- Smoker: 
 THE PU'E IN THE WORKHOUSE. — The picture drawn by our Helper of the poor old man 
 in the workhouse, puffing away at an empty pipe, has touched the liearts of some of our correspon- 
 dents. One who dates from the High Alps, and signs himself “Old Screw," says; “ I have been 
 struck witli your suggestion in the October number of the ReN’IFW of Reviews for a seheme to 
 supply smokers in union workhouses with tobacco. I am afraid, judged by the ordinary standards, 
 I am the most selfish of mortals, as I never give a cent away tor purposes of so<alled chanty ; but 
 this scheme of yours appeals at once to the synipatlues of a hanlencd and inveterate smoker. 'Wert 
 1 in London, I would at once start a collecting-box for the fund, and levy coutribntioDs for-it on my 
 smoking acquaintances, but, unfortunately, my bu iness compels me to be a wanderer round rlic 
 Continent for the next nine months. I can, howe\er, do a little, and would like to contribute .t 
 pound of what Iconsider the* BEST SMOKING TOBACCO, viz., • PLAYliR’S NAVY CUT' 
 (this is not an advertisement^. I enclose, there ore, a cheque for the amount.” 
 
1 ' 
 
 IN ALL 
 
 Honest Soap.almost sells itself, 
 and does not require to have 
 millions spent in advertising it. 
 
 I 
 
 
 1 ■* 
 
 '1 
 
 VINOLIA 
 
 is the very finest of Soap, and. 
 is sold at a fair price. We have 
 
 ‘ ■'N 
 
 advertised it at Home and Abroad 
 with moderation , and it has pro- 
 bably the Largest Sale in the 
 World. Ask your Chemist, Stores, 
 or Grocer. ^ 2 
 
 4d. Floral, 6d. 
 Toilet, lOd. Vestal, 2/0. 
 
 BLONDEAU et CIE. 
 
 OFFICES & WAREHOUSE, RYLAND ROAD, LQNDON. 
 VINOLIA SOAP WORKS, MALDEN CRESCENT, ICj^r'ON. 
 U. S. A. OFFICES, 73-77, WATTS ST., N.Y 
 
 liRADni’KV, & co. i d., rrixthr*;. WMiTr.FRiARs. 
 
 
 , \