UNCLE STEVE'S FAIRY.
You've 'eard 'em tell o' fairy folk
An' all the luck they bring?
Now don't you 'eed the lies that's spoke;
They don't do no such thing;
You see my thumb, Sir, 'ow it's tore?
You'll say, may'ap, a badger boar
'As done it? By your leave,
An' that's a bloomin' fairy, Sir, that bit old Uncle Steve!
'Twas me an' Ebenezer Mogg
An' little Essex Jim,
The chap that's got the lurcher dog
That's cleverer than 'im,
As met to 'ave a bit o' sport
Among the covers at the Court,
Upon the strict q.t.—
That's Ebenezer, then, an' Jim, an' Toby-dog an' me.
At 'alf-past ten or so that night
We left "The Chequers'" bar;
'Twas dark, an' down the velvet 'eight
Of 'eaven fell a star;
The moon was settin' through the trees
As big an' white as 'alf a cheese,
The very best she could,
Since we 'ad got the long-net out to try the 'Ome Park wood.
We laid it 'long the cover side,
A furlong "mesh an'-pin";
We sent the lurcher rangin' wide
To drive the rabbits in;
A soft, sweet night in late July
We lay among the bracken 'igh
That 'eld the mid-day sun,
While mute an' wise ole Toby ranged enjoyin' of the fun.
But soon we 'ears the rabbits squeak,
A-kickin' in the cords,
An' gets among 'em, so to speak,
Like gentlemen an' lords;
We slips along their necks to wring,
When Mogg 'e 'oilers out, "By Jing!
Look, lads, 'ere's summut fresh—
A bloomin' fairy-airy 's got 'isself into the mesh!"
We flashed the lanthorn on to 'im;
I tell you, Sir, 'e lay
A nasty, ugly little limb,
An' yallerer than clay;
An' wicious—Ebenezer Mogg
Wanted to back 'im 'gainst the dog;
But Jim 'e says, "No go;
This 'ere'll fetch a mort o' brass for Mr. Barnum's show!"
I grabs the little jumpin'-jack;
Says I, "It's gettin' late;
We'll shove the beggar in the sack
An' see, at any rate."
'Twas then ole Buckshot an' his crew
Come dashin' at us 'cross the dew;
The varmint bit like mad;
I shook 'im off—'e disappeared; but I was fairly 'ad!
They brought me up at Thornleigh 'Eath;
I got a fortnight's stretch;
An' still I feels 'is wicked teeth,
That spiteful little wretch;
An' still my thumb 's all any'ow
In weather (as it is just now)
That's frosty, 'ard an' chill;
'Tis few things seems to do it good.... Why, thank 'ee, Sir, I will!