Part 4

'Ot July! Just nicked a handy fiver (Twenty-five to one on old "Screw-driver"!) New rig-out. This mustard colour mixture Suits me nobby. Fan appears a fixture. Gurls like style, you know, and colour ketches 'em, But good show of ochre,--_that's_ what fetches 'em, Wimbledon! _I'm_ not a Wolunteer. Discipline don't suit this child--no fear! But we 'ave fine capers at the camp, Proper, but for that confounded scamp: Punched my 'ead because I guyed his shooting. Fan I fancied rather 'ighfaluting; Ogled the big beggar as he propped me. Would 'a licked 'im if _she_ 'adn't stopped me.

AUGUST.

August! Time to think about my outing. No dibs yet, though, so it's no use shouting. Make the best of the Bank 'Oliday. Fan "engaged"! Don't look too bloomin' gay, Drop into the bar to do a beer, Twig her talking to that Volunteer. Sling my 'ook instanter sharp and short, Took Jemimer down to 'Ampton Court. Not 'arf bad, that gurl. Got rather screwed, Little toff complained as I was rude. 'It 'im in the wind, he went like death; Weak, consumptive cove and short o' breath. Licked 'im proper, dropped 'im like a shot,-- Only wish that Fan had seen _that_ lot.

SEPTEMBER.

'Ere's September! 'Oliday at last! Off to Margit--mean to go it fast. Mustard-coloured togs still fresh as paint, Like to know who's natty, if _I_ ain't. Got three quid; have cried a go with Fan, Game to spend my money like a man. But sticking tight to one gal ain't no fun-- Here's no end of prime 'uns on the run; Carn't resist me somehow, togs and tile All A 1--make even swell ones smile. Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubt I could cut no end of big pots out. Call me cad? When money's in the game, Cad and swell are pooty much the same.

OCTOBER.

Now October! Back again to collar, Funds run low, reduced to last 'arf-dollar. Snip on rampage, boots a getting thin, 'Ave to try the turf to raise some tin. Evenings getting gloomy; high old games; Music 'alls! Look up the taking names. Proper swells them pros.! If I'd my choice, There's my mark. Just wish I'd got a voice; Cut the old den to-morrow, lots of cham., Cabs and diamonds,--ain't that real jam? Got the straight tip for the Siezerwitch, If I _honly_ land it, I'll be rich. Guess next mornin' wouldn't find me sober-- Allays get the blues about October.

NOVEMBER.

Dull November! Didn't land that lot. Fear my father's son is going to pot. Fan jest passed me, turned away 'er eyes, Guess she ranked me with the _other_ guys, Nobby larks upon the ninth, my joker; But it queers a chap to want the ochre. Nothing like a crowd for regular sprees, Ain't it fine to do a rush, and squeeze? Twig the women fainting! Oh, it's proper! Bonnet buffers when the blooming copper Can't get near yer nohow. Then the fogs! Rare old time for regular jolly dogs. If a chap's a genuine 'ot member, He _can_ keep the game up in November!

DECEMBER.

Dun December! Dismal, dingy, dirty. Still short commons--makes a chap feel shirty. Snip rampageous, drops a regular summons. Fan gets married; ah! them gurls is rum 'uns! After all the coin I squandered on 'er! Want it now. A 'eap too bad, 'pon honour, Snow! Ah, that's yer sort, though, and no error. Treat to twig the women scud in terror. Hot 'un in the eye for that old feller; Cold 'un down 'is neck, bust his umbreller. Ha! ha! Then Christmas,--'ave a jolly feast! The boss will drop a tip,--hope so, at least. If I don't land some tin, my look-out's queer. Well, let's drink, boys--"Better luck next year!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

RUS IN URBE

(_A Cockney Rhapsody_)

As I stroll through Piccadilly, Scent of blossoms borne from Scilly Greet me. Jonquil, rose, and lily, Violet and daffydowndilly. Oh, the feeling sweet and thrilly That these blossoms flounced and frilly From soft plains and headlands hilly Bring my breast in Piccadilly! It subdues me, willy nilly, Though such sentiment seems silly, And a bunch, dear, buys your Willy, To dispatch, by post, to Milly, Dwelling, far from Piccadilly, In moist lowlands, rushed and rilly, Blossomy as Penzance or Scilly. Sweets to the sweet! "Poor Silly-Billy!" You may say in accents trilly. When the postman in the stilly Eve, from distant Piccadilly, Bears this box of rose and lily, Violet and daffodilly, To the rural maiden, Milly, From her urban lover, Willy.

P.S.--

Dry as toke and skilly, Is this arid Piccadilly, Notwithstanding rose and lily, All the beauteous blooms of Scilly, Reft of that flower of flowers--Milly. So, at least, thinks "Silly Billy."

* * * * *

A COCKNEY'S EXCLAMATION UPON SEEING THE CELEBRATED HEIDELBERG TON.--"Well, it is (s)ton-ning!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

SHAKESPEARE ON BLACKHEATH

I saw young 'Arry with his billycock on, Checked trousers on his thighs, with knob stick armed, Climb from the ground like fat pig up a pole, And flop with such sore toil into his saddle, As though a bran-bag dropped down from the clouds, To turn and wind a slow "Jerusalem," And shock the world with clumsy assmanship.

* * * * *

'ARRY'S LATEST CONUNDRUM.--Why is a title-page like charity?--Becos it always begins a tome. (Begins at 'ome, don'tcher see!)

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

MOST MUSICAL, MOST MELANCHOLY.--A Cockney gentleman who had been hearing a concert of old music, where every piece that was performed was in the programme termed an "op.," observed, as he went out, "Well, after all these 'ops, I vote we have some malt."

* * * * *

COCKNEYISM IN THE COUNTRY.--_1st Cockney._ I say, what sort of a 'ouse will do for a fowl-'ouse?

_2nd Cockney._ Lor' bless yer, _hen_-ny 'ouse.

* * * * *

CONUNDRUM FOR COCKNEYS.--Which has the greater amount of animal heat, the beaver or the otter? Why, of course, the _otter_ of the two.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE COCKNEY SPORTSMAN

How happy could I be in heather, At the grouse gaily blazing away! But then, somehow, I can't touch a feather, So 'tis better at Brighton to stay.

* * * * *

PRO BONO.--There is one first-rate joint that comes to table which is the Cockney's prime aversion--the h-bone.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

SPORTSMEN AT SEA.

_(Tom exhibiting a tern which he has shot)._ I say, 'Arry, wot bird 's this 'ere?

_'Arry._ A auk, I should say.

_Tom._ What yer calls a sparrerawk?

_'Arry._ No. Hay, u, k, auk, without the sparrer.

* * * * *

A COCKNEY'S EPITAPH

THINK! "From the cradle to the grave!" my brother, A nurse takes you from one, an 'earse to t'other.

* * * * *

A VULGAR ERROR.--Misplacing the haspirate.

* * * * *

A CHEVALIERESQUE CONUNDRUM.--_Coster Bill (to 'Arriet)._ I si! When is your young man like a fish out of water?

_'Arriet._ Oh, g'long! Give't up.

_Coster Bill._ Why, when 'es a _witin'_ round the corner.

[Short encounter, and exeunt severally.

* * * * *

* * * * *

DISCOVERED IN DRURY LANE

(_Near the new Baker Street Lodging House established by the County Council._)

I 'old it true wote'er befall, I feel it when things go most cross, Better do a fi'penny doss, Than never do a doss at all!

* * * * *

UNIVERSITY SYMPATHY.

_First Errand Boy (after the University Boat Race)._ Wot 'ave yer got a light blue ribbon in yer button 'ole for, Tommy?

_Second E. B. (promptly)._ 'Cos our 'ouse allus sells Cambridge sausages!

* * * * *

A MATTER OF TASTE.

_Vulgar Parvenu (who is watching the interior decorations of his house)._ "Don't you think that tapestry 'eats the rooms?"

_Artistic Decorator._ "Very possibly, sir; you see, it's Goblin (_Gobelin_)."

* * * * *

* * * * *

AUDACIOUS 'ARRYISM.--Our friend 'Arry objects to the title of a recently published novel, "Airy Fairy Lilian." He says that he can't imagine a fairy all over 'air, though he might an 'obgoblin.

* * * * *

THE BAGMAN'S BAG

Hark how the cockney sportsman drops His aitches o'er the glades and glens, But, at hen pheasents though he pops, Your 'Arry never drops his n's.

* * * * *

A PAIR OF "NIPPERS."--A coster's twins.

* * * * *

COCKNEY CLASSICS.

"Jack," said Robins, "which varsity would you rayther go to, Hoxford or 'Idleberg?"

"Hoxford, Jemmy, to be sure, you muff," answered Robbins. "'Cos vy, I prefers hindustry to hidleness."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

'ARRY ON 'ORSEBACK

Our 'Arry goes 'unting and sings with a will, "The 'orn of the 'unter is 'eard on the 'ill"; And oft, when a saddle looks terribly bare, The 'eels of our 'Arry are seen in the air!

* * * * *

COCKNEY EPITAPH FOR A COOK.--"Peace to his hashes."

* * * * *

"A Horse," observed a Scotch vet., "may have a very good appetite, and yet be unable to eat a bit."

"Ah," said 'Arry, "there's the difference between a 'oss and a ostridge, which could eat bit, snaffle, curb and all."

* * * * *

LE SPORT.

A Cockney sportsman, wishing to introduce hare-hunting into France, is seriously meditating a work on the subject, to be entitled, _Arrière-pensées_; _or, Thoughts on Keeping 'Ariers_. His _nom de plume_ will be _Le petit Jean du_ Jockey Club.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

COCKNEY PHILOSOPHY.

The Socratic mode of argument is the only true mode of chopping logic, because it proceeds altogether on the principle of axing questions.

* * * * *

'ARRY PUTS 'EM RIGHT.

The _Daily Chronicle_--recently suggested that the plural of rhinoceros is a disputed point. 'Arry writes: "What O, _Mr. P._, 'disputed'?--not a bit. Any kiddy as 'as 'ad 'arf an eddication knows what the plural of ''oss' is, don't he? No matter as to its bein' spelt ''os' or ''oss.' Plural, anyway ''osses.' 'Bus-'os'--'Bus-'osses.' 'Rhinocer-os'--'Rhinocer-osses.' That's as plain as an 'aystack, ain't it?"

"Yours,

"'ARRY."

* * * * *

DEFINITION FOR A DINER-OUT.--An unlicensed wittler, quoth our worthy 'ost.--'ARRY.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Ah!" exclaimed, enthusiastically, a hairdresser's assistant who had been out for a holiday. "'Ind 'Ead, in Surrey! That's the place for hair!"

* * * * *

THE REAL LONDON PRIDE.--We know an inveterate Cockney who declares that London milk beats the country milk, and beats it "_by many chalks_."

* * * * *

GOOD PAPER FOR DEAF COCKNEYS.--_The 'Earer._

* * * * *

THE MUSICAL COSTER CRAZE.--_Customer._ Have you a copy of Costa's _Eli_?

_Shopman._ No, sir; we have none of Chevalier's songs.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A SONG OF SPRING

_By a Cockney Poet._

All hail, thou jocund time of year, To Cockneys and cock-robins dear! All hail, thou flowery, showery season, When throstles, mating, perch the trees on: When sparrows on the house-tops sit, And court their loves with cheery twit: While opera songsters tune their throats, Exchanging for our gold their notes! Now Nature her new dress receives, And dinner-tables spread their leaves; Asparagus again one sees, And early ducklings, served with peas; Again the crisp whitebait we crunch, And chops of lambkin blithely munch; Salmon again our shops afford, And plovers' eggs adorn the board; While for one day at least our sons May stuff themselves with hot cross buns! See now the swells begin to show Their horsemanship in Rotten Row: See now the Drive is thronged once more, And idlers lounge there as of yore: See now fair April fills Mayfair, And gives new life to Grosvenor Square. See now what crowds flock to the Zoo, Where Master Hippo is on view See daffodils, and daisies pied In bloom, and buttercups beside: See now the thorn, and e'en the rose Signs of returning Spring disclose: See now the lilac large in bud; While costermongers, splashed with mud, The product of the passing showers, Cry, "Here's yer all a blowing flowers!" Or wake the echoes of the groves[A] With "Hornaments for yer fire-stoves!"

[Footnote A: Westbourne Grove, Lisson Grove, Camden Grove, &c.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

COCKNEY HOBSERVATION.

Cockneys are not the only people who drop or exasperate the "h's." It is done by common people in the provinces, and you may laugh at them for it. The deduction therefore is, that a peasant, with an "h," is fair game.

* * * * *

NEW COCKNEY SAINT.--Mrs. Malaprop declares that if she lives to be a hundred--and all her family detain a venerated age--she will certainly have a Saint 'Enery.

* * * * *

RIDDLE BY 'ARRY.--"Look 'ere, if you're speakin' of a young unmarried lady bein' rather 'uffy, what well-known river would you name?--Why, '_Miss is 'ippy_,' o' course."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE END

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.