'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.
