'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 drop on 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.
