'ARRY ON HARRY.
(A Rejoinder to "Harry on 'Arry.")
Dear Charlie,—My eye and a bandbox! Wot next, and wot next, and WOT next?
'Ere's a Harry 'as mounted the pulpit, and taken poor me as 'is text![*]
'E bangs Boernerges to bittocks, this lar-de-dar bagman—in silk—
And 'e's going to do me a fair knock-out as sure as a whale ain't a whilk.
I larf, I do, Charlie, tremenjus! Wot's needled my nabs, it appears,
Is 'is being mistooken for Me!!! Well, 'e needn't 'ave no blooming fears!
The public ain't all of 'em mugginses, some of 'em can twig a joke.
Confound 'im with me? Yus, they will—when they can't tell Bend Or from a moke.
'E calls me,—yus, me,—"the cad-cockney well known to the 'Eath and the 'Arp."
Well, that's a fair challenge, old man, and I mean being on to 'im—sharp!
I'll take 'im—with 'is aitches chucked in—with one 'and whensomever 'e likes;
And "Cads" do the road in smart dog-carts as well as afoot or on bikes.
"'Arry the Cad!" Great Jemimer! Jest fancy our Harry's disgust
At the thought of their knocking 'is aitch out! 'E's fair on the bile and the bust.
Way oh, Harry! Do keep yer 'air on, old pal, if you've got any thatch,—
For it's wonderful 'ow these swell Harries go in for the shiny pink patch!
It's their brines working through—or their bumptiousness. I've got no hend of a crop,
As looks, when I've 'ad a close clip, like a fuzz-bush a sprouting up top;
But lor! these 'ere munchy-mouthed mashers—with aitches—as gives theirselves hairs,
Carn't grow any, not arter thirty, the bladder-o'-lardy-dar scares!
'Owsomever, that ain't to the pint, Charlie. Wot is a Gent? That's the nip!
Well, it's partly a matter of "snap"-like, and partly a matter of "snip."
If I've got the grit and the gumption, and know 'ow to tog like a toff,
I've got the true gent in my nyture, and them as ain't got it—they're hoff!
But "aitches" won't do it, my pippin! Yer grammar may be quite O K,
All yer parts o' speech proper as pie, and yer spellin' fust chop in its way,
But if you can't rattle and patter, and 'old up your end like a man,
All yer mincey-wince mealy-mouthed has-p'rates is nothink but slop and cold-scran.
You may garsp out yer aitches in spassums, until you 'ave got a sore throat,
And it won't give you "clarss" arf as much as cool cheek and the cut o' your coat.
Wot the mivvies call hinsolent hotoor, wot cocktails dub cocksure conceit,
With snideness and "suitings" to match,—that, dear boy, is wot makes the eleet.
There, Harry, you've got it in once! And, now, dear boy, 'ow about you?
Well, I guess, as the Yankees observe, you 'ave bit hoff a chunk you can't chew.
Bit vulgar? Well, never mind that, mate, for, spite of your finnickle fuss,
It's jest wot you guffins calls "vulgar" as swells love to borrer from hus.
There's chick in it, Harry, and that's wot you chalk-witted chowders ain't got.
Not one snappy snide phrase in your sermon, except that old gag "tommy rot,"
Which you didn't invent, nor your sort; it's hus aitchless ones start all the fun,
And our yesterday's wheeze you freeze on to to-morrer, as sure as a gun.
And the same with your sentiments, Harry. Your loud "Rule, Britannyer" sall right;
But we gave you the patriot tip, years ago, in "We don't want to fight."
You water it down, and then wave it as if 'twos your own privit flag,
And then, arter nicking our principerles, slang us—and with our own gag!
I'm one with you as to the furriner, leastways you seem one with me,
And when you rile up at the rot about "'Arries Abroad," I agree.
I shan't discumfuddle myself if they don't like my tystes or my togs.
Let the Germans go 'ome and eat coke, Frenchies stick to their snyles and stewed frogs.
But when you suggest as the "aitch" makes a 'a'porth o' difference—Bosh!
You call me a "aitch-droppin' howler," whilst you are "a gent"! It won't wash.
Me a Rad,—arter all I 'ave written? 'Taint much on it you can 'ave seen.
And to ask Punch to give me the chuck!—yah! it's mean, Mister Harry, it's mean!
[*] See "Harry on 'Arry," p. 81.
