Chapter II

And when we reach
The Brighton beach
It's sure to pour with rine
A pub is not
A 'appy spot
For us to set and drine
Yet there we set and tike our beer
And while awy the dy,
Though we don't 'ave words, no bloomin' fear
Mariar 'as 'er sy.
_Refrine--_
'Er langwidge is for sangwidges,
She's sorry that she cime;
The weather's wrong, 'er feather's wrong,
I 'as to tike the blime.
It's "'Arry" 'ere, and "'Arry" there,
And "'Arry, you're a bloomin' bear,"
And "'Arry, it's a shime"--
(_Spoken._)--Which is 'ard on a feller! And then we 'as
to ketch the bloomin' trine again, and she _do_ talk, but
never mind--
(_Brightly._)
We've 'ad a 'appy 'ollidy,
We gits 'ome all the sime.
--'Urry up, 'Arry!

* * * * *

COCKNEY SPORT EXTRAORDINARY.

Well-known sporting character, residing at Putney, being unable to reach the moors this season, and having lost his gun, has lately amused himself by bringing down several brace of grouse by means of the Brompton omnibus.

* * * * *

AT THE ZOO. (A FACT).--_'Arriet (looking at the Java sparrows)._ Wot's them? Sparrerkeets?

_'Arry._ Sparrerkeets be 'anged--them's live 'umming birds.

* * * * *

_First seaside saddle polisher._ "Wot cheer, 'Arry? 'Ow are yer gettin' on?"

_'Arry._ "First-rate, old pal. Only this--beggar always--bumps--at the wrong--time!"]

* * * * *

Fare. "Hans Mansions."

_Cabby._ "_Queen_ Hanne's Mansions, I suppose you mean, miss?"]

* * * * *

"Finen?"

"No; thick 'un!"]

* * * * *

_Second Frenchman._ "Ah, c'est mon cher Alphonse!"

_British Workman._ "Bloomin' Germans!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

'ARRY ON HIS 'OLIDAY

_Being an epistle from that notorious and ubiquitous person, luxuriating for the time in rural parts, to his chum Charlie, confined in town._

Wha' cheer, my dear Charlie? 'Ow are yer? I promised I'd drop yer
a line.
I'm out on the trot for a fortnit; and ain't it golumpshusly fine?
Bin dooing the swell pretty proper, I beg to assure yer, old man.
Jest go it tip-top while you're at it, and blow the expense, is
_my_ plan.

Bin took for a nob, and no error this time; which my tailor's A 1.
The cut of these bags, sir, beats Poole _out of_ fits. (Are yer fly
to the pun?)
And this gridiron pattern in treacle and mustard is something uneek,
As the girls--but there, Charlie, _you_ know me, and so there's no
call for to speak.

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!

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

SEASONABLE.--_'Arry's friend._ What's the proper dinner for Ash Wednesday?

_'Arry._ Why, 'ash mutton, o' course.

* * * * *

_The Missus._ "Oh, Jem, you said you'd give me your photergrarf. Now, let's go in, and get it done."

_Jem._ "Oh, I dessay! an' 'ave my 'Carte de Wisete' stuck up in the winder along o' all these 'ere bally-gals an' 'igh-church parsons! No, Sairey!"]

* * * * *

(_Who lives in an unappreciative Suburb_)

_'Arriet (nudging her lidy friend, and in an ostentatious stage-whisper)._ "'Amlet!"]

* * * * *

_Professor._ "Stop, stop! Why don't you sound the H?"

_Tenor._ "It don't go no 'igher than G!"]

* * * * *

_Second Newspaper Boy._ "I suppose 'e's the North Pole as 'as just been discovered!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Why, a Prodigal's a sort o' cove as keeps on coming back!"]

* * * * *

SCENE--_Canal side, Sunday morning_

_Lady._ "Do you know where little boys go to who bathe on Sunday?"

_First Arab._ "Yus. It's farder up the canal side. But you can't go. Girls ain't allowed!"]

* * * * *

'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.

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

RETREAT FOR COCKNEY IDLERS.--Earn nil.

* * * * *

(_At the Natural History Museum_)

_Visitor._ "Hullo! I say, I've got 'em agin! Gi' me the blue ribbon!"]

* * * * *

_Short-tempered Gentleman in Black (after violent collision with a stonemason fresh from work)._ "Now, I'll arsk you jest to look at the narsty beastly mess as you've gone and mide me in! Why, I'm simply smothered in some 'orrid white stuff!! Why don't yer be more careful!!!"]

* * * * *

"What cheer, matey! Doin' any business?"

"Garn! Wot yer gettin' at? I ain't 'ere to do business. I'm takin' the hopen hair treatment!"]

* * * * *

_Master._ "Jim!"

_Page._ "Yessir."

_Master._ "Rather a 'igh 'ill we're comin' to, ain't it?"

_Page._ "Very 'igh 'ill indeed, sir."

_Master._ "Ah! well, jest you jump down, Jim, and walk alongside a bit; it'll make it easier for the poor 'orse, you know."]

* * * * *

_'Arry (reading account of the war in the East)._ "Ow, I s'y, 'Arriet, they've bin an' took old Li 'Ung Chang's three-heyed peacock's feathers all off 'im!"

_'Arriet (compassionately)._ "Pore old feller!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Architect._ "What aspect would you like, Mr. Smithers?" _(who is about to build a house)_.

_Mr. Smithers._ "Has Muggles"--(_a rival tradesman_)--"got a haspect? 'Cause--mind yer, I should like mine made a good deal bigger than 'is!!"]

* * * * *

_Miss Effie has left her sun-shade on the other side of the rivulet. The chivalrous young De Korme attempts the dangerous pass in order to restore it to her.

Obnoxiously Festive 'Arry (to him)._ "Ho, yuss! Delighted, I'm sure! _Drop in any time you're passin'!_"]

* * * * *

'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.

* * * * *

_Sympathetic Friend (to sweeper)._ "What's the use o' arstin' _'im_, Bill? _'E_ don't give away nothink less than a Gover'ment appointment, _'e_ don't!!"]

* * * * *

_Jim._ "What's this 'ere 'Bi-metallism,' Bill?"

_Bill (of superior intelligence)._ "Well, yer see, Jim, it 's heither a licens'd wittlers' or a teetotal dodge. The wages'll be paid in silver, and no more coppers. So you can't get no arf-pint nor hanythink under a sixpence or a thrip'ny. Then you heither leaves it alone, and takes to water like a duck, or you runs up a score."

_Jim._ "Ah! But if there ain't no more coppers, 'ow about the 'buses and the hunderground rileway?"

_Bill (profoundly)._ "Ah!"

[_Left sitting._

]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Hangelina._ "Sy? Why--'halves'!"]

* * * * *

_New Hand (loafing)._ "I'm agoin' to."

_M. C. H._ "Wot are yer goin' ter do?"

_N. H._ "'Elp you."

_M. C. H._ "Come alorng, then."

_N. H._ "All rite. You go orn, I'm agoin' ter do the 'issing."]

* * * * *

_Old Farmer Worsell (who is experimenting with unemployed from London)._ "Now then, young feller, 'ow long are you goin' to be with that 'ere milk?"

_Young Feller._ "I caunt 'elp it, guv'nor. I bin watchin' 'er arf an hour, and she ain't laid any yit."]

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Well, that's what I calls a himpossible persition to get yerself into!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Yers--an' 'ave all me cloves run orf wiv. Not if _I_ know it!"]

* * * * *

THE COCKNEY'S ADDRESS TO THE SEA.--"With all thy faults I love thee _still_."

* * * * *

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."

* * * * *

FOR THE USE OF SCHOOLS.--(_By a Cockney._) Why should not Dr. Watts' poems be read by youth?

Because they contain _Hymn-morality_.

* * * * *

A LINE FROM BROWNING

(_For hairdressers who recommend a wonderful "Restorative," and are careless of the aspirate._)

"An everlasting wash of air."

* * * * *

A COCKNEY CON.--When may a man really be supposed to be hungry?

When he goes to Nor-(gnaw)wood for his dinner.

* * * * *

_Stout Coster._ "Where are ye goin' to, Bill?"

_Bill._ "Inter the country for a nice drive, bein' Bank 'Olidy."

_Stout Coster._ "Same 'ere. I sy! don't yer think we might swop misseses just for a few hours? It would be so much kinder to the hanimile!"]

* * * * *

_'Arriet._ "_I_ can't 'elp the way yer stand, 'Arry."]

* * * * *

"'Ooray, Bill! 'Ere's luck! I gorr' 'nother tanner! Leshgobackag'in!"]

* * * * *

----"And talk of our bein' be'ind the French in general edication, why all I can say is as it's the commonest thing in Paree, for instance (over fust-class restorongs, too, mind yer), to see 'dinner' spelt with only one 'N'!"]

* * * * *

"I can tell you what _you're_ suffering from, my good fellow! You're suffering from _acne_!"

"_'Ackney?_ Why, that's just what _t'other_ medical gent he told me! _I only wish I'd never been near the place!_"]

* * * * *

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.

'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!"

* * * * *

The chick-a-leary cochin.]

* * * * *

_Cabby (who has pulled up and heard the dispute)._ "Don't you take it, Bill. It's his ticket o' leave!"]

* * * * *

_Benevolent Lady (who has with infinite trouble organised a country excursion for some over-worked London dressmakers)._ "Then mind you're at the station at nine to-morrow, Eliza. I do hope it won't rain!"

"_Rine_, miss! I 'owp not, to be sure! The country's bad enough when it's _foine_, yn't it, miss?"]

* * * * *

"Get onto 'is neck, like me, Halfred, an' they'll take us for jockeys!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Old Lady._ "You know the 'Royal Oak'? Well, you turn to the right, past the 'Jolly Gardener,' till you come to the 'Red Lion'----"

_Artful Cabby._ "O, don't tell me the 'ouses, mum! Name some o' the churches, and then I shall know where I am!!"

[_Asks, and gets, an exorbitant fare without a murmur._

]

* * * * *

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!"

* * * * *

_Country Cousin._ "Lor, Bill, ain't that a horstrich?"

_Bill._ "_Horstrich?_ 'Corse not. That 'ere's a _mongoose_!"]

* * * * *

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!)

* * * * *

_Country Friend._ "Well, what of it?"

_Cockney._ "Why, it ain't the fust of Hoctober?"]

* * * * *

_'Liza._ "We knows yer don't, miss, an' we offen pities yer!"]

* * * * *

_Hemma._ "Oh, 'Arry, hain't this 'eavenly! You'll promise to give me 'am sandwiches always, when we're married, won't yer?"

_'Arry._ "'Corse I will!"]

* * * * *

_Second Workman._ "You're uncommon mean with yer matches. I'll just take a few"--(_helps himself to two-thirds_)--"and be hinderpendent of yer!"]

* * * * *

_First Boy._ "Where are yer goin' to, Bill?"

_Second Boy._ "I've got to go right over 'Ammersmith Bridge to Barnes, then I'se got to go to Putney and back by Fulham Road, then to 'Igh Street, Kensington."

_First Boy._ "Why, I've got to go to 'Igh Street. You go on. I'm in a bit of a hurry, but _I'll wait for yer_!"]

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

(_The artist is rather shy, and has left his model to do the honours of his studio._) "From whom did Mr. M'Gilp paint that head?"

"From yours obediently, madam. I sit for the 'eads of all 'is 'oly men."

"He must find you a very useful person."

"Yes, madam. I order his frames, stretch his canvases, wash his brushes, set his palette, and mix his colours. All _he's_ got to do is just to _shove 'em on!_"]

* * * * *

_Bystander._ "Don't worry about it, cocky; ain't you got the bloomin' 'oss as security!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

_"Self-made" Man (examining school, of which he is a manager)._ "Now, boy, what's the capital of 'Olland?"

_Boy._ "An 'H,' sir."]

* * * * *

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_)."

* * * * *

_Street Boy (to cabby, in a block)._ "Look 'ere, are you a goin' on wi' this four wheeler?--'r else me an' my friend'll get down an' walk!"

[_Retires hastily._

]

* * * * *

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._ "Ow much an hour, guv'nor?"

_Horsekeeper._ "Eighteenpence."

_'Arry._ "All right. I'll have a ride."

_Horsekeeper._ "Well, you've got to leave 'arf a crown on the 'orse?"]

* * * * *

"Have you got any _whole_ strawberry jam?"

"No, miss. All ours is quite new!"]

* * * * *

"The weather seems to be improving, Nupkins!"

"Yes, miss; the nightingale and the cuckoo is a-'ollerin', every night!"]

* * * * *

'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, _Arriere-pensees_; _or, Thoughts on Keeping 'Ariers_. His _nom de plume_ will be _Le petit Jean du_ Jockey Club.

* * * * *

(_Sting._)

"Crikey! ain't 'is feet 'ot!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Fancier._ "No. I drowns 'em!"]

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

_Unpromising Individual (suddenly--his voice vibrating with passion)._

"She's moy unney;
Oim 'er joy!"]

* * * * *

"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.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Wot a silly question to arst! Why, if I 'ad twopence, wot 'ud I be doin' standin' outside a public 'ouse?"]

* * * * *

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.]

* * * * *

"With my new panama-a-ar
And tupp'ny ciga-a-ar."]

* * * * *

_Cockney Art-Teacher (newly arrived and nervous--after a long silence)._ "If you _should_ see a chance o' drorin' any thing correctly--DO SO!!"

[_Collapse of expectant student._

]

* * * * *

_'Arry._ "Phew!"--(_the weather was warm, and they had walked over from 'Ammersmith_)--"bring us a bottle o'champagne, waiter."

_Waiter._ "Yessir--dry, sir?"

_'Arry (aughtily, to put a stop to this familiarity at once)._ "Never you mind whether we're dry or whether we ain't!--bring the wine!"]

* * * * *

_Lady._ "You don't mean to tell me that this little girl is fit to wait at table!"

_Mother (proudly)._ "Well 'm, she _ought_ to be, seein' as 'ow 'er father 'as been a _plate layer_ for five-and-twenty year!"]

* * * * *

_'Arry (who thinks he is being addressed, and always ready to oblige with information)._ "Oh, op. 2. Second dance; second 'op, yer know. May I 'ave the pleasure?"]

* * * * *

"It's another hinjustice to hus pore wimmen, it is! They won't let us send the kids for it now, an' if my heldest boy goes for it 'e 'as 'arf of it 'isself, 'an' if my old man goes 'e never comes back! so the hend of it is, I 'ave to go for it myself!"]

* * * * *

_Nervous Philanthropist (on a slumming excursion)._ "Can you tell me if this is Little Erebus Street, my man?"

_Suspicious-looking Party._ "Yus."

_Nervous P._ "Er--rather a rough sort of thoroughfare, isn't it?"

_Suspicious-looking P._ "Yus; it is a bit thick. The further yer gows daown, the thicker it gits. I lives in the last 'aouse."

[_Exit philanthropist hurriedly in the opposite direction._

]

* * * * *

_First Burglar._ "'Ere's a go, mate! This 'ere bit o' turkey, knuckile hend of an 'am, arf a sossidge, and the 'olly off the plum-puddin'! Might as well 'ave looked in on a bloomin' vegetarian!"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

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."

* * * * *

_'Arry._ "Do you pass any pubs on the way to Broadstairs, cabby?"

_Cabby._ "Yes. Lots."

_'Arry._ "Well, _don't!_"]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE END

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