'ARRY AND THE BATTERSEA PARK LADY CYCLISTS.
Dear Charlie,—You know I'm a "biker."
I told yer a good bit ago
'Ow I learnt to cavort on the cycle; and now,
from Land's End to Soho,
There isn't a scorchinger Scorcher than
'Arry, when fair on the spin.
Some might do me for pace, but for style,
and for skylark, I'd jest about win.
Lil Johnson—you know little Lil with the
copper-wire fringe and rum lisp!
'Er as flower-mounts Clerkenwell way, an'
wos donah to young Iky Crisp!
She's blue sancho on learnin' to "bike," so I
took 'er to Battersea Park,
As I'd 'eard wos the pitch for a spry lydy
cyclist as longed for a lark.
Larks, Charlie! It's spruce, and no
pickles! You know I fly cool without fidge,
But I wosn't prepared for the toppers as
treddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge.
No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smart
bits o' frock from Mayfair;
It took me aback for a jiff, tho' of course
I wos speedy all there.
"Lor, 'Awwee!" lisped Lil, "thith ith
thplendid! But 'adn't we better sthand by?
Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwell
lydith! No,'Awwee, I don't like ter twy.
Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobbling
among thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth!
Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, and
thpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!"
Poor Lil! She's no clarss, not comparative.
Ain't got no savvy, yer see;
And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, not
with a flyer like me.
Don't like to be done, I don't Charlie; and
so I sez "Jest as yer like.
Ony, if I meant biking, in Battersea, dash it
old girl, I should bike!"
"Oh, 'awwee," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un!
But let uth look on, dear, thith go;
Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don't
want ter myke you no show."
"All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. But ontry
noo, Charlie, old pal,
When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, I
wos most arf ashymed o' my gal.
One young piece in grey knicks and cream
cloth, and a sort of soft tile called a toke,
Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'd
ha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke,
But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad got
a sharp eye upon 'er;
And I couldn't ha' done the perlite without
raising a bit of a stir.
If I could ha' got rid o' Lil, I'd ha' mounted
my wheel, and wired in,
Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man! I'd
ha' showed Miss Grey Knicks 'ow to spin.
One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos the
bike she'd bespoke wosn't there,
I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wos
a freeze-me-stiff stare.
"Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'Awwee!" sez Lil.
"Well," sez I, "she may be a Princess,
As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B.
and a young Marcherness
Do paternise Battersea Park on a bike;
leastways so I've bin told;
And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas give
by dooks is a sight to behold."
"Garn, 'Awwee," snigs Lil, "you're a
kiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing.
To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth all
kid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring,
Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!"
"It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move.
From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh,
the lydies must keep on the shove.
"They borrow their barnies from hus, arter all,
Lil. Toffs want a new lark,
So they straddle the bike ah lah Brixton, and
tumble to Battersea Park.
'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, are
sniffed at out Hislington way,
But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea,
they're trotty and puffeck O K!"
World shifts it, old man, that's a moral!
We'll soon 'ave some duchess, on wheels,
A-cuttin' all records, and showing young
Zimmy a clean pair of 'eels.
Hadvanced Women? Jimminy-Whizz! With
the spars and the sails they now carry
They'll race us all round, pooty soon, and
romp in heasy winners! Yours,
'Arry.