Part 3
My merstach is a coming on proper--that fetches 'em, Charlie, my boy; Though one on 'em called me young spiky, which doubtless was meant to annoy. But, bless yer! 'twas only a touch of the green-eyed, 'acos I looked sweet On a tidy young parcel in pink as 'ung out in the very same street.
O Charlie, such larks as I'm 'aving. To toddle about on the sands, And watch the blue beauties a-bathing, and spot the sick muffs as they lands, Awful flabby and white in the gills, and with hoptics so sheepishly sad, And twig 'em go green as we chaff 'em; I tell yer it isn't half bad.
Then, s'rimps! Wy, I pooty near lives on 'em; got arf a pocketful here, There's a flavour of bird's-eye about 'em; but that's soon took off by the beer. The "bitter" round here is jest lummy, and as for their soda-and-b., It's ekal to "fizz" and no error, and suits this small child to a t.
The weeds as I've blown is a caution;--I'm nuts on a tuppenny smoke. Don't care for the baths, but there's sailing, and rollicking rides on a moke. I've sung comic songs on the cliffs after dark, and wot's fun if that ain't? And I've chiselled my name in a church on the cheek of a rummy stone saint.
So, Charlie, I think you will see, I've been doing the tourist to rights. Good grub and prime larks in the daytime, and billiards and bitter at nights; That's wot _I_ calls 'oliday-making, my pippin. I wish _you_ was here, Jest wouldn't we go it extensive! But now I am off for the pier.
To ogle the girls. 'Ow they likes it! though some of their dragons looks blue. But lor'! if a chap _has_ a way with the sex, what the doose can he do? The toffs may look thunder and tommy on me and my spicey rig out, But they don't stare yours faithfully down, an' it's all nasty envy, no doubt.
Ta! ta! There's a boat coming in, and the sea has been roughish all day; All our fellows will be on the watch, and _I_ mustn't be out of the way. Carn't yer manige to run down on Sunday? I tell yer it's larks, and no kid! Yours bloomingly, 'ARRY.
P.S.--I have parted with close on four quid!
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POISON IN THE BOWL.--_Hot weather._--Advice by our own Cockney. Don't put ice in your champagne. It's pison. How do I know this? Because it comes from Venom Lake.
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SEASONABLE.--_'Arry's friend._ What's the proper dinner for Ash Wednesday?
_'Arry._ Why, 'ash mutton, o' course.
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'ARRY ON 'APPINESS
DEAR CHARLIE,
A 'Appy New Year to yer! That's the straight tip for to-day, So I'm bound to be in it, old chip, though things don't _look_ remarkable gay. I inclose you a card--a correct one, I 'ope, though it strikes one as queer That such picters is thought _apprypo_ this perticular time of the year.
You'll observe there's a hangel in muslin a twisting 'erself all awry, With some plums, happle-blossoms, and marigolds, backed by a dab o' blue sky. Dekkyrative it's called, so the mivvy informed me who nobbled my tanner; _I_ call it a little bit mixed, like the art on a Odd-Fellow's banner.
But, bless you, it's all of a piece, Charlie--life is so muddled with rot That it takes rayther more than a judge or a jury to tell yer wot's wot. Whether knifing a boy 'cos one's peckish means murder if lyings are libels, Seem questions as bothers the big wigs, in spite of their blue books and Bibles.
Where are we, old pal? that's the question. Perhaps it would add to one's ease If life wos declared a "mixed wobble," it's motter a "go as you please." But 'tisn't all cinder-path, Charlie, wus luck! if it was, with "all in," You wouldn't go fur wrong, I fancy, in backing "yours truly" to win.
"A 'Appy New Year!" That's the cackle all over the shop like to-day. Wot's 'Appiness? Praps Mister Ruskin and little Lord Garmoyle will say. You an' me's got _our_ notions of yum-yum, as isn't fur wide o' the mark, But who'll give us change for 'em, Charlie? Ah! that's where we're left in the dark.
The Reform Bill won't do it, my pippin, on that you may lay your last dollar. The fact is this 'Appy New Year fake is 'oller, mate, hutterly 'oller. 'Twon't fly--like the Christmas card hangels, it doesn't fit into the facks; All it does is to spread tommy-rot, and to break all the postmen's poor backs.
You'll be thinking I've got the blue-mouldies, old man, and you won't be fur hout. Funds low with yours truly, my bloater, no chances of getting about. Larks, any amount of 'em, going, advertisements gassing like fun, But 'Arry, for once in the way, 's a stone-broker and not in the run.
It's cutting, that's wot it is, _cutting_. I'm so used to leading the field, That place as fust-fly at life's fences is one as I _don't_ like to yield, Espechly to one like Bill Blossit--no style, not a bit about Bill! And they talk of a 'Appy New Year, mate, and cackle o' peace and goodwill!
Oh yus, I'd goodwill 'em, Bill Blossit and false Fanny Friswell, a lot! They are off to the world's fair to-night, sir, and _that's_ wy I say it's such rot. If form such as mine's to go 'obbling whilst mugginses win out o' sight, I say the world's handicap's wrong, mate, and Christmas cards won't set it right.
Lor bless yer, 'e ain't got no patter, not more than a nutmeg, Bill ain't; But the railway has taken his shop, and he's come out as fresh as new paint. And so because _I'm_ out of luck, and that duffer has landed the chink, She 'ooks onto him _like_ a bat to a belfry, sir! What do _you_ think?
A 'Appy New Year? Yus, it looks like it! Charlie, old chap, I've heard tell Of parties called pessymists, writers as swear the whole world's a big sell; No doubt they've bin jilted, or jockeyed by some such a juggins as Bill; And without real jam--cash and kisses--this world is a bitterish pill.
Still, I wish you a 'Appy New Year, if you care for the kibosh, old chappie, Though 'taint 'igh art cards full o' gush and green paint'll make you and me 'appy. Wot _we_ want is lucre and larks, love and lotion as much as you'll carry! Give me them, and one slap at that Bill,--They're the new year gifts to suit.
'ARRY.
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AT SCARBOROUGH.--_'Arriet (pointing to postillions of pony-chaises)._ Why do all them boys wear them jackets?
_'Arry._ There's a stoopid question! Why, they're all jockeys a-training for the Ledger, of course!
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EGGING HIM ON.--_Knowing old Gentleman._ Now, sir, talking of eggs, can you tell me where a ship lays to?
_Smart Youth (not in the least disconcerted)._ Don't know, sir, unless it is in the hatchway.
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RETREAT FOR COCKNEY IDLERS.--Earn nil.
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'ARRY ON THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY
DEAR CHARLIE,
'Ow are yer, old Turmuts? Gone mouldy, or moon-struck, or wot? Sticking down in the country, like you do, I tell yer, is all tommy-rot. Its town makes a man of one, Charlie, as me and the nobs 'as found out, And a snide 'un like you should be fly to it. Carn't fancy wot you're about.
Old Ruskin, I know, sez quite t'other, but then _he_ is clean off his chump. Where's the _life_ in long lanes, with no gas-lamps? Their smell always give me the 'ump. Come hout on it, mate, it'll spile yer. It's May, and the season's begun, All the toffs is in town--ah! you trust 'em! _they_ know where to dropon the fun.
Don't ketch _them_ a-Maying, my pippin, like bloomin' old Jacks-in-the-Green, A-sloppin' about in damp medders, with never a pub to be seen. No fear! We've primroses in tons--thanks to Beakey--for them as can pay. And other larks as _is_ larks, mate, they know meet in London in May.
It is all very well, on a Sunday, for just arf a dozen or so To take a chay-cart down to Epsom, and cut down the may as yer go. I've 'ad 'igh old times on that lay, Charlie, gals, don't yer know, and all that, Returning at dusk with the beer on, and may branches all round yer 'at.
With plenty of tuppenny smokes and 'am san'wiches, Charlie, old man, And a bit of good goods in pink musling, it ain't arf a bad sort o' plan. Concertina, in course, and tin whistle, to give 'em a rouser all round, And "chorus," all over the shop, till the winders'll shake at the sound.
That's "May, merry May," if yer like, mate, and does your's ancetrar a treat. But the rural's a dose as wants mixing, it won't do to swaller it neat; That's wy the Haristos and 'Arry, and all as is fly to wot's wot, Likes passing the season in London, in spite of yer poetry rot.
Country's all jolly fine in the autumn, with plenty of killing about-- Day's rabbitin's not a bad barney, and gull-potting's lummy, no doubt; But green fields with nothink to slorter, no pubs, no theaytres, no gas!-- No, no, it won't wash, and the muggins as tells yer it will is a hass.
But May in "the village," my biffin, the mighty metrolopus,--ah! That's paradise, sir, and no kid, with a dash of the true lah-di-dah. Covent Garden licks Eden, I reckon, at least it'll do _me_ A 1; Button-'oler and Bond Street, old pal, that's yer fair top-row sarmple for fun!
Wy, we git all the best of the country in London, with dollups chucked in. _Rush in herby!_--ascuse the Hitalian!--Ah, mate, ony wish I'd the tin; I'd take 'em a trot, and no flounders! It's 'ard, bloomin' 'ard, my dear boy, When form as is form ain't no fling, as a German ud say, _fo der quoy._
_I_'d make Mister Ruskin sit up, and the rest of the 'owlers see snakes, With their rot about old Mother Nature, as _never_ don't make no mistakes. Yah! Nature's a fraud and a fizzle, that is if yer can't fake her out With the taste of a man about town, ony sort as knows wot he 's about.
Well, London's all yum-yum jest now. Hexhibitions all hover the shop, I tell yer it keeps one a-movin'. _I_'m on the perpetual 'op, Like the prince. Aitch har aitch _is_ a stayer, a fair royal Rowell, I say. (I landed a quid on _that_ "Mix," but I carnt git the beggar to pay.)
"Inventories" open, you know. Rayther dry, but the _extrys_ O.K. It's the extrys, I 'old, make up life, arf the pleasure and most o' the pay. Yus, princes and painters, philanterpists, premiers and patriots may gush, But wot ud become of their shows if it weren't for the larks and the lush?
Lor bless yer, dear boy, picter galleries, balls, sandwich sworries and all,-- It's fun and the fizz makes 'em go, not the picter, the speech or the squall. Keep yer eye on the buffet's my maxim, look out for the "jam" and the laugh, And you'll collar the pick o' the basket, the rest is all sordust and chaff.
That's philosophy, Charlie, my pippin; the parsons and prigs may demur, But if you would foller _their_ tip, wy, you'll 'ave to go thundering fur. Ah! "May, merry May!" up in town, fills your snide 'un as full as he'll carry Of laughter and lotion. That's gospel to toffs and yours scrumptiously,
'ARRY.
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THE COCKNEY'S ADDRESS TO THE SEA.--"With all thy faults I love thee _still_."
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A COSTERMONGER'S CANT
Bill Coster said, "See them two fish? Them there's both females, mister; A pilchard she in this here dish: That 'ere's her errin' sister."
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FOR THE USE OF SCHOOLS.--(_By a Cockney._) Why should not Dr. Watts' poems be read by youth?
Because they contain _Hymn-morality_.
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A LINE FROM BROWNING
(_For hairdressers who recommend a wonderful "Restorative," and are careless of the aspirate._)
"An everlasting wash of air."
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A COCKNEY CON.--When may a man really be supposed to be hungry?
When he goes to Nor-(gnaw)wood for his dinner.
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THE CAD'S CALENDAR
JANUARY.
January! Tailor's bill comes in. Blow that blooming snip! I'm short o' tin. Werry much enjoyed my Autumn caper, But three quid fifteen do look queer paper. Want another new rig out, wuss luck, Gurl at Boodle's bar seems awful struck, Like to take her to the pantermime; That and oysters after _would_ be prime. Fan's a screamer; this top coat would blue it, Yaller at the seams, black ink won't do it. Wonder if old snip would spring another? Boots, too, rayther seedy; beastly bother! Lots o' larks that empty pockets "queer." Can't do much on fifty quid a year.
FEBRUARY.
Febrywary! High old time for sprees! Now's yer chance the gals to please or tease, Dowds to guy and pooty ones to wheedle, And to give all rival chaps the needle. Crab your enemies,--I've got a many, You can pot 'em proper for a penny. My! Them walentines do 'it 'em 'ot. Fust-rate fun; I always buy a lot. Prigs complain they're spiteful, Lor' wot stuff! I can't ever get 'em strong enough. Safe too; no one twigs your little spree, If you do it on the strict Q. T. If you're spoons, a flowery one's your plan. Mem: I sent a proper one to Fan.
MARCH.
March! I'm nuts upon a windy day, Gurls do git in such a awful way. Petticoats yer know, and pooty feet; Hair all flying--tell you it's a treat. Pancake day. Don't like 'em--flabby, tough, Rayther do a pennorth o' plum-duff. Seediness shows up as Spring advances, Ah! the gurls do lead us pretty dances. Days a-lengthening. Think I spotted Fan Casting sheep's eyes at another man. Quarter-day, too, no more chance of tick. Fancy I shall 'ave to cut my stick. Got the doldrums dreadful, that is clear. Two _d._ left--must go and do a beer.
APRIL.
April! All Fools' Day's a proper time. Cop old gurls and guy old buffers prime. Scissors! don't they goggle and look blue When you land them with a regular "do"? Lor! the world would not be worth a mivvey If there warn't no fools to cheek and chivy. Then comes Easter. Got some coin in 'and, Trot a bonnet out and do the grand. Fan all flounce and flower; fellows mad Heye us henvious; nuts to me, my lad. 'Ampstead! 'Ampton! Which is it to be? Fan--no flat--prefers the Crystal P. Nobby togs, high jinks, and lots o' lotion, That's the style to go it, I've a notion!
MAY.
May! The month o' flowers. Spooney sell! "Rum 'ot with," is wot _I_ likes to smell. Beats yer roses holler. A chice weed Licks all flowers that ever run to seed. Nobby button'oler very well When one wants to do the 'eavy swell; Otherwise don't care not one brass farden, For the best ever blowed in Covent Garden. Fan, though, likes 'em, cost a pretty pile, Rayther stiff, a tanner for a smile. Blued ten bob last time I took 'er out, Left my silver ticker up the spout. Women are sech sharks! If I don't drop 'er. Guess that I shall come a hawful cropper!
JUNE.
June! A jolly month; sech stunning weather. Fan and I have lots of outs together: Rorty on the river, sech prime 'unts, Foul the racers, run into the punts. Prime to 'ear the anglers rave and cuss, When in quiet "swims" we raise a muss. Snack on someone's lawn upon the quiet. Won't the owner raise a tidy riot When he twigs our scraps and broken bottles? Cheaper this than rustyrongs or hottles, Whitsuntide 'ud be a lot more gay If it warn't so near to quarter-day. Snip turns sour, pulls "county-courting" faces. Must try and land a little on the races.
JULY.