POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.
THE MAN THAT SMOKES THE RANK TWO-D CIGAR, OH!
Air—"The Man that broke the Bank at Monte Carlo."
[Pardon, good Gilbert, pardon, genial Coborn, That from the Bois Boolong. Unto the Cockney purlieus of 'Igh 'Olborn, We shift your famous song.]
I'm just "all there," no 'Arry; I've the money, so I score!
To a Race last week I went,
And there staked a quarter's rent.
Dame Fortune smiled upon me as she never done before:
And now I've copped the ochre I'm a gent!
Yus, now I've piled the pieces, I'm a gent!
Chorus.
As I mash and lark in Finsbury Park,
With a free an' heasy hair,
You can twig the donahs stare.
"Bob must be a millionnaire!"
You can 'ear 'em cry,
"Oh, ain't 'e fly?
And carn't 'e wink the hother heye?"
The man wot smokes the prime Two-D cigar, oh!
I've chucked my crib, and two-quid-screw, for betting's now my walk;
I do my mornin' march
Down to the Marble Arch.
I'm bound to spot more winners; I've a eye that's like a 'awk;
I'm a mass of oof and 'air-oil, shine and starch;
Yus, a reg'lar mass of ochre, shine and starch.
Chorus.
As I walk along, still "going strong,"
With my Tuppenny all a-flare,
You can 'ear old buffers swear,
As my baccy scents the air.
You can hear 'em sigh,
And moan, "Oh my!"
You can see 'em choke, and blink the heye
At "the man wot smokes the rank Two-D cigar, oh!"
I paternise the Promenards on a Sunday, with the Swells,
With my topper on the skew,
And my cloud a-blowin' blue;
For a tuppenny smoke and a leary joke they nobble the mam'selles,
And if they're nuts on me, wot can I do?
Yus, if they're arter me, wot can I do?
Chorus.
As I swagger and swell along Pell-Mell,
With a reg'lar oof-bird air,
You can 'ear sour swells declare,
"A Whitechapel weed!"—and swear.
But their narsty cry
Means—jealousy.
So I puff, and wink the hother heye—
"The man wot smokes the rank Two-D Cigar, oh!"