'ARRY ON THE SEASON.
Dear Charlie,—The pypers all tell us the Season is now at its 'ight;
Don't mean one o' Thomson's, my pippin. That josser is now out of dyte.
When I was a bit of a kiddie, dad 'ad a old brown-covered book
Into wich now and then, on a Sunday, 'e thought it the right thing to look.
Such sloppy saloop, my dear Charlie, "embellished" with rummy old cuts,
Drawn stiff and old-fashioned, by Stothard. On one on 'em though, I was nuts,
Musi—— somethink or other I fancy. But as to the cackle, Great Scott!—
"The sun rolling bounteous from Aries," and reams o' such molly slop rot.
Now if Jemmy 'ad sung of our Season, not Nature's old merry-go-round,
But London's pertikler, for swells, it 'ud suit me right down to the ground.
But as Jemmy has shirked it for tosh on "ethereal mildness," and such,
Wy 'Arry must 'ave a cut in, and all London is fly to his touch.
Wot a Summer we're 'aving this Season! All Nature seems trim and in tune;
Ripe strorberries picked out o' doors, though we've 'ardly yet dropped into June;
The parks jest like bloomin' peraries, the water supply going queer,
And a general 'urrying up for stror 'ats, lemon squoshes, and beer.
It seems only yesterday, Charlie, the standpipes wos up in our street,
And "Are you froze off?" wos the question of every poor pal you might meet.
And now there's a new "water famine" along o' the 'eat, not the cold,
And ginger-pop's sellin' as fast as it can be unbottled and sold.
Queen's droring-rooms, troopin' the colours, and trotting young Nasrulla round,
Is sights your true patriot's nuts on, and I've done my bit, you be bound.
I chi-iked to young Ingy-rubber, and give him the haffable nod;
And if H. R. H. didn't twig me, and drop me a smile, well, it's odd.
Hart's 'aving its innings, as usual, and so is old W. G.,
Only more so. My eye and a band-box, a rare bit o' stuff he must be!
As nigh forty-seven as don't matter, as big as a barrel, and yet
A-piling 'is centries like pea-shellin'! Sound Double Gloster, you bet!
I sor him at Lord's, mate, last Thursday, five 'ours and a arf in the sun,
A smiting and running as if, at 'is age, with 'is weight, it was fun!
'Ot, Charlie? My collar flopped limp, and I lapped lemon-squoshes—a number;
And there wos 'e tottling 'is Thousand, as cool as a bloomin' cowcumber.
I wouldn't ha' done it for tuppence; no, not with the cheerings chucked in,
Although the Pervilion fair rose at 'im. 'Ow gents of clarss, and with tin,
And no need to it, Charlie, choose Cricket, at ninety degrees in the shyde,
When they could lay hidle, fair licks me. But, there, hevery one to 'is tryde!
A dust-coat, a white 'at, a field-glass, a landau and lashings o' fizz,
At Hascot would suit me fur better. The old sport o' kings is good biz,
With shekels, and luck, like Lord Rosebery! Scissors! I do 'ate a Rad.
But a sportsman, as pulls off two Derbies, wy 'ang it, 'e carn't be no Cad.
If Primrose would only turn Primroser, wot a fair topper he'd be!
Wot can be 'is little gyme, Charlie, to foller old W. G.?
(I don't mean the cricketer this time.) That Liberal lot ain't no clarss,
With a lot o' tag-rag they carn't hold, and a lot o' bad Bills they carn't parss.
The blot on this Season is Parlyment. Wy don't they 'urry it up,
And scoot to country, the cripples? St. Paul's to my tarrier pup,
They'd git a 'ot 'iding this journey. Let Rosebery cut the thing short,
Chuck 'Arcourt and pal on with Gentleman Joe, like a gent, and a Sport!
Then 'Arry will talk to 'im, Charlie! Ah, well, I ain't got no more room,
Though I ain't done the Season arf justice. The last pale laburnum's in bloom,
But it ain't bin washed brimstone with rain-bursts. Our Sarah is hover from Parry,
Sir Orgustus is fair on the toot, so 'Ooray for the Season! Yours, 'Arry.
New Book and Query.—"Women's Tragedies. By H. D. Lowry." Is the tragic history of That Lass of Lowrie's included? "But that is another story."