'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.
