"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!"
I've "reported" as near as no matter! I don't hunderstand more than
arf
Of his patter; he's preciously given to potry and classical charf.
But the cheek on it, CHARLIE! A Stone-broke! I _should_ like to give
him wot for,
Only DANNEL the Dosser's a dab orf of whom t'ain't so easy to score.
[Illustration]
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.
Rooral quiet, and rest, and refinement? Oh, let 'em go home and eat
coke.
These fussy old footlers whose 'air stands on hend at a row-de-dow
joke,
The song of the skylark sounds pooty, but "skylarking" song's better
fun,
And you carn't do the rooral to-rights on a tract and a tuppenny bun.
As to colour, and kick-up, and sing-song, our party was fair 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 pooty thick; _they_ ain't stashed by no
ink-spiller's rot.
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