Self-respect.

Self-respectSelf-respect.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!"

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!"

'AmletTHE TRIALS OF OUR ARTISTIC FRIEND, LEONARDO DA TOMPKINS(Who lives in an unappreciative Suburb)'Arriet (nudging her lidy friend, and in an ostentatious stage-whisper)."'Amlet!"

(Who lives in an unappreciative Suburb)

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

Why don't you sound the HTenor (singing)."Oh, 'appy, 'appy, 'appy be thy dreams——"Professor."Stop, stop! Why don't you sound the H?"Tenor."It don't go no 'igher than G!"

Tenor (singing)."Oh, 'appy, 'appy, 'appy be thy dreams——"

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

Tenor."It don't go no 'igher than G!"

two boys talkingFirst Newspaper Boy."Hullo, Bill! Who's 'e?"Second Newspaper Boy."I suppose 'e's the North Pole as 'as just been discovered!"

First Newspaper Boy."Hullo, Bill! Who's 'e?"

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

Gorgeous-looking IndividualGorgeous-looking Individual."Most 'strordinary weather, ain't it? First it's 'ot, then it's cold. Blow me, if one knows 'ow to dress!"

Gorgeous-looking Individual."Most 'strordinary weather, ain't it? First it's 'ot, then it's cold. Blow me, if one knows 'ow to dress!"

wot 's a Prodigal"I say, Bill, wot 's a Prodigal?""Why, a Prodigal's a sort o' cove as keeps on coming back!"

"I say, Bill, wot 's a Prodigal?"

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

NOT WHAT SHE EXPECTEDNOT WHAT SHE EXPECTEDScene—Canal side, Sunday morningLady."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!"

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!"

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'tlookremarkable gay.I inclose you a card—a correct one, I 'ope, though it strikes one as queerThat such picters is thoughtapprypothis 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;Icall 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 rotThat 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 easeIf 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 gotournotions 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 Idon'tlike 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, andthat'swy 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 becauseI'mout of luck, and that duffer has landed the chink,She 'ooks onto himlikea bat to a belfry, sir! What doyouthink?A 'Appy New Year? Yus, it looks like it! Charlie, old chap, I've heard tellOf 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.Wotwewant 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.

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'tlookremarkable gay.

I inclose you a card—a correct one, I 'ope, though it strikes one as queer

That such picters is thoughtapprypothis 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;Icall it a little bit mixed, like the art on a Odd-Fellow's banner.

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;

Icall 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 rotThat 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.

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 easeIf 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.

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 gotournotions 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.

"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 gotournotions 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.

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.

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 Idon'tlike 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!

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 Idon'tlike 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, andthat'swy 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.

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, andthat'swy 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 becauseI'mout of luck, and that duffer has landed the chink,She 'ooks onto himlikea bat to a belfry, sir! What doyouthink?

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 becauseI'mout of luck, and that duffer has landed the chink,

She 'ooks onto himlikea bat to a belfry, sir! What doyouthink?

A 'Appy New Year? Yus, it looks like it! Charlie, old chap, I've heard tellOf 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.

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.Wotwewant 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.

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.

Wotwewant 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.

VisitorAN EASTER OBJECT LESSON(At the Natural History Museum)Visitor."Hullo! I say, I've got 'em agin! Gi' me the blue ribbon!"

(At the Natural History Museum)

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

Men in collisionHis Best "Soot."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!!!"

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!!!"

Two men talkingOverheard During one of our Recent Stormy Days.—"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!"

Overheard During one of our Recent Stormy Days.—"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!"

Kind to Dumb AnimalsAlways be Kind to Dumb Animals.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."

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."

Real SympathyReal Sympathy.'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!"

'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!"

SWEET LAVENDER"SWEET LAVENDER!"

discussion with builder"Aut Cæsar Aut Nullus."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!!"

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!!"

The Last StrawThe Last Straw.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'!"

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'!"

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 thenheis clean off his chump.Where's thelifein 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!theyknow where to drop on the fun.Don't ketchthema-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 asislarks, mate, they know meet in London in May.It is all very well, on a Sunday, for just arf a dozen or soTo 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 domeA 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, asneverdon't make no mistakes.Yah! Nature's a fraud and a fizzle, that is if yer can't fake her outWith 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 aitchisa stayer, a fair royal Rowell, I say.(I landed a quid onthat"Mix," but I carnt git the beggar to pay.)"Inventories" open, you know. Rayther dry, but theextrysO.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 follertheirtip, wy, you'll 'ave to go thundering fur.Ah! "May, merry May!" up in town, fills your snide 'un as full as he'll carryOf laughter and lotion. That's gospel to toffs and yours scrumptiously,'Arry.

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 thenheis clean off his chump.Where's thelifein 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!theyknow where to drop on the fun.

Old Ruskin, I know, sez quite t'other, but thenheis clean off his chump.

Where's thelifein 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!theyknow where to drop on the fun.

Don't ketchthema-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 asislarks, mate, they know meet in London in May.

Don't ketchthema-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 asislarks, mate, they know meet in London in May.

It is all very well, on a Sunday, for just arf a dozen or soTo 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 domeA 1;Button-'oler and Bond Street, old pal, that's yer fair top-row sarmple for fun!

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 domeA 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.

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, asneverdon't make no mistakes.Yah! Nature's a fraud and a fizzle, that is if yer can't fake her outWith the taste of a man about town, ony sort as knows wot he 's about.

I'd make Mister Ruskin sit up, and the rest of the 'owlers see snakes,

With their rot about old Mother Nature, asneverdon'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 aitchisa stayer, a fair royal Rowell, I say.(I landed a quid onthat"Mix," but I carnt git the beggar to pay.)

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 aitchisa stayer, a fair royal Rowell, I say.

(I landed a quid onthat"Mix," but I carnt git the beggar to pay.)

"Inventories" open, you know. Rayther dry, but theextrysO.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?

"Inventories" open, you know. Rayther dry, but theextrysO.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.

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 follertheirtip, wy, you'll 'ave to go thundering fur.Ah! "May, merry May!" up in town, fills your snide 'un as full as he'll carryOf laughter and lotion. That's gospel to toffs and yours scrumptiously,

That's philosophy, Charlie, my pippin; the parsons and prigs may demur,

But if you would follertheirtip, 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.

Judge of CharacterA Judge of Character.Sympathetic Friend (to sweeper)."What's the use o' arstin''im, Bill?'Edon't give away nothink less than a Gover'ment appointment,'edon't!!"

Sympathetic Friend (to sweeper)."What's the use o' arstin''im, Bill?'Edon't give away nothink less than a Gover'ment appointment,'edon't!!"

Two men in conversationA BI-METALLISTIC DISCUSSIONJim."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.

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.

Cockney MacbethCockney Macbeth (a trifle "fluffy" in his words) bellows out:"'Ang out our banners on the houtward walls! The cry is—'Let 'emallcome!'"

Cockney Macbeth (a trifle "fluffy" in his words) bellows out:"'Ang out our banners on the houtward walls! The cry is—'Let 'emallcome!'"

King's shillingHedwin."Hangeleener! Won't yer 'ear me? Wot 'ud yer sy if I told yer as I'd 'took the shillin'?"Hangelina."Sy? Why—'halves'!"

Hedwin."Hangeleener! Won't yer 'ear me? Wot 'ud yer sy if I told yer as I'd 'took the shillin'?"

Hangelina."Sy? Why—'halves'!"

Man Cleaning HorseMan Cleaning the Horse."Naa then lazy, w'y don't yer do some work?"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."

Man Cleaning the Horse."Naa then lazy, w'y don't yer do some work?"

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."

Men with cow"Back to the Land."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".

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".

Hold my broom"'Ere, just 'old my broom a minute. I'm just goin' up the street. If any of my regular customers comes, just arst 'em to wait a bit!"

"'Ere, just 'old my broom a minute. I'm just goin' up the street. If any of my regular customers comes, just arst 'em to wait a bit!"

Art in WhitechapelArt in Whitechapel."Well, that's what I calls a himpossible persition to get yerself into!"

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

Men looking in shop window

Loafer (looking at a hundred pound dressing-bag)."I wonder wot sort of a bloke it is as wants a bag of tools like that to doss 'isself up with?"

Men dicussing swimming"Comin' up to 'Yde Park to 'ave a bave, 'Arry?""Yers—an' 'ave all me cloves run orf wiv. Not ifIknow it!"

"Comin' up to 'Yde Park to 'ave a bave, 'Arry?"

"Yers—an' 'ave all me cloves run orf wiv. Not ifIknow it!"

The Cockney's Address to the Sea.—"With all thy faults I love theestill."

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."

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 containHymn-morality.

(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.

Very ConsiderateSo Very Considerate.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!"

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!"

man and woman talking'Arry (whose "Old Dutch" has been shopping, and has kept him waiting a considerable time)."Wot d'yer mean, keepin' me standin' abaat 'ere like a bloomin' fool?"'Arriet."Ican't 'elp the way yer stand, 'Arry."

'Arry (whose "Old Dutch" has been shopping, and has kept him waiting a considerable time)."Wot d'yer mean, keepin' me standin' abaat 'ere like a bloomin' fool?"

'Arriet."Ican't 'elp the way yer stand, 'Arry."

Very Dry WeatherVery Dry Weather."'Ooray, Bill! 'Ere's luck! I gorr' 'nother tanner! Leshgobackag'in!"

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

Two men talking'EARD ON 'AMPSTEAD 'EATH——"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'!"

——"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'!"

DiagnosisDiagnosis."I can tell you whatyou'resuffering from, my good fellow! You're suffering fromacne!""'Ackney?Why, that's just whatt'othermedical gent he told me!I only wish I'd never been near the place!"

"I can tell you whatyou'resuffering from, my good fellow! You're suffering fromacne!"

"'Ackney?Why, that's just whatt'othermedical gent he told me!I only wish I'd never been near the place!"

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 afterwouldbe 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 FanCasting 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.Twod.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 blueWhen you land them with a regular "do"?Lor! the world would not be worth a mivveyIf 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 madHeye 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 wotIlikes to smell.Beats yer roses holler. A chice weedLicks all flowers that ever run to seed.Nobby button'oler very wellWhen 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 riotWhen he twigs our scraps and broken bottles?Cheaper this than rustyrongs or hottles,Whitsuntide 'ud be a lot more gayIf 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 mixtureSuits me nobby. Fan appears a fixture.Gurls like style, you know, and colour ketches 'em,But good show of ochre,—that'swhat fetches 'em,Wimbledon!I'mnot 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 ifshe'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 seenthatlot.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, ifIain'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 tileAll A 1—make even swell ones smile.Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubtI 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 Ihonlyland 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 theotherguys,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 copperCan't get near yer nohow. Then the fogs!Rare old time for regular jolly dogs.If a chap's a genuine 'ot member,Hecankeep 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!"

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 afterwouldbe 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.

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 afterwouldbe 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.

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 FanCasting 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.Twod.left—must go and do a beer.

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.

Twod.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 blueWhen you land them with a regular "do"?Lor! the world would not be worth a mivveyIf 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 madHeye 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!

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 wotIlikes to smell.Beats yer roses holler. A chice weedLicks all flowers that ever run to seed.Nobby button'oler very wellWhen 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!

May! The month o' flowers. Spooney sell!

"Rum 'ot with," is wotIlikes 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 riotWhen he twigs our scraps and broken bottles?Cheaper this than rustyrongs or hottles,Whitsuntide 'ud be a lot more gayIf it warn't so near to quarter-day.Snip turns sour, pulls "county-courting" faces.Must try and land a little on the races.

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 mixtureSuits me nobby. Fan appears a fixture.Gurls like style, you know, and colour ketches 'em,But good show of ochre,—that'swhat fetches 'em,Wimbledon!I'mnot 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 ifshe'adn't stopped me.

'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'swhat fetches 'em,

Wimbledon!I'mnot 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 ifshe'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 seenthatlot.

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 seenthatlot.

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, ifIain'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 tileAll A 1—make even swell ones smile.Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubtI 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.

'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, ifIain'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 Ihonlyland it, I'll be rich.Guess next mornin' wouldn't find me sober—Allays get the blues about 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 Ihonlyland 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 theotherguys,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 copperCan't get near yer nohow. Then the fogs!Rare old time for regular jolly dogs.If a chap's a genuine 'ot member,Hecankeep the game up in 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 theotherguys,

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,

Hecankeep 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!"

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!"

Studies in Animal LifeStudies in Animal Life.The chick-a-leary cochin.

The chick-a-leary cochin.

man in disputeSwell (who won't be done)."H 'yars my kyard if you'd—ah—like to summon me."Cabby (who has pulled up and heard the dispute)."Don't you take it, Bill. It's his ticket o' leave!"

Swell (who won't be done)."H 'yars my kyard if you'd—ah—like to summon me."

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

Labour of LoveA Labour of Love!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'sfoine, yn't it, miss?"

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'sfoine, yn't it, miss?"

ON EPSOM DOWNSON EPSOM DOWNS"Get onto 'is neck, like me, Halfred, an' they'll take us for jockeys!"

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

waving fields of macaroniLittle Tompkins."That fellow Brown tried to stuff me up with some of his travellers' tales the other day. Talked about his trip to Italy, and the waving fields of macaroni, but he didn't catch me, you know. Theydon'twave!"

Little Tompkins."That fellow Brown tried to stuff me up with some of his travellers' tales the other day. Talked about his trip to Italy, and the waving fields of macaroni, but he didn't catch me, you know. Theydon'twave!"

GuileGuile.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.

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.

(A Cockney Rhapsody)

As I stroll through Piccadilly,Scent of blossoms borne from ScillyGreet me. Jonquil, rose, and lily,Violet and daffydowndilly.Oh, the feeling sweet and thrillyThat these blossoms flounced and frillyFrom soft plains and headlands hillyBring 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 stillyEve, 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."

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!"

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