'ARRY ON LAW AND ORDER!
Dear Charlie,
Ascuse shaky scribble; I'm writing this letter in bed.
Went down to the Square, mate,—last Sunday,—and got a rare clump on the 'ed.
Beastly shame, and no error, my pippin! Me cop it! It's too jolly rum.
When a reglar Primroser gits toko, one wonders wot next there will come.
It wos all Bobby's blunder, in course; Mister Burleigh and me was "mistook."
I went jest for a lark, nothink else, and wos quietly slinging my 'ook,
Wen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon dropped smack on my nob,
And 'ere I ham, tucked up in bed, with a jug of 'ot spruce on the 'ob.
'Ard lines, ain't it, Charlie, old hoyster? A barney's a barney, dear boy,
And you know that a squeege and a skylark is wot I did always enjoy.
A street-rush is somethink splendacious to fellers of sperrit like me,
But dints and diakkylum plaster will spile the best sport, dontcher see.
Don't you fancy the "Hunemployed," bunkum has nobbled me; not sech a mug!
And as fer O'Brien and his breeches, I'm glad the fool's fairly in jug.
No, no, Law and Horder's my motter, but wen a spree's on 'Arry's there;
And I thought, like a lot of the Swells, I should find one that day in the Square.
Lord Mayor's Day with a scrimmage chucked in is a hopening too temptin' to miss.
More pertikler wen all in "the Cause"—Law and Horder, I mean, mate—like this.
I despises the Poor and the Spouters; to see their 'eds jolly well broke
Is fun, but a bash on one's own—well, there, somehow it spiles the whole joke.
The Perlice wos too dashed hinderscriminate, that's where it wos, my dear boy;
Wich they couldn't take me for a Paddy or 'umbugging "Out of Employ."
Wen that cop got his hand on my collar he ought to 'ave knowed like a shot,
By the Astrykan only, that I wasn't one o' the Socherlist lot.
I 'ate 'em, dear Charlie, I 'ate 'em! They wants to stop piling the pelf,
Wen that is wot every dashed one of us wants to be piling hisself.
No, Wealth is wot must be kep up and pertected, wotever goes wrong;
And to talk of abolishing Millionnaires, Charlie, is coming it strong.
They are like prize Chrysanthemums, Charlie; for, if you want them, don'tcher see,
You must nip off some thousands of buds to let one or two swell and grow free.
Jest you turn a lot loose in yer garden, and that ain't the way as they'll grow;
But if 'undreds weren't sacrificed daily to one, you would not get no Show.
That's Life in a nutshell, my bloater! All wants to be fust, but they can't;
Most on us is wasters; the game of the snide un's to be a Prize Plant.
Then you're mugged up to-rights and made muck of, but, oh, you must be a big ass,
If you fancies as daisies is dealt with like horchids, and grown under glass!
Ask Gentleman Joe. He knows better, he's finding it out more and more,
And his Radical rot about "ransom" won't turn up agen; it don't score.
"Law and Horder's" the tip I can tell yer. I'm on to it fairly for one,
And there's ony one thing I finds fault with; they do rayther bunnick up Fun!
If heverythink's on the Q.T., and a Peeler is always at 'and—
And that's Law and Horder you bet, as beknown to the rich and the grand—
It's O.K. for the 'olders of ochre, who, if they've a mind for a spree,
Can always palm-oil Mr. Peeler, and do it upon the Q.T.
But hus, Charlie, hus? I likes Horder, and likeways I'm partial to Law,
Wen it means keeping my swim all clear, and a muzzling my henemy's jaw.
Wy, nothink could easy be nicerer, then, don'tcher see, dear old pal;
But supposing that game interferes with my larks, or my lush, or my gal?
Local Hopshun, for instance, or Betting Laws, Prize Fight pervention, and such
That some mealy-mouthed mugs are so sweet on; if they cop us, life ain't wuth much.
Contrydicting myself? Oh, well, Charlie, I've sech a blarmed pain in my 'ed,
And life looks a queer sort of mix wen you boss the whole bizness from bed.
Dan the Dosser, who knows the Square well, 'aving slep in it night arter night,
Sez the Golden Calf safely railed in by the Law is a 'eavenly sight.
Acos Horder is 'Eaven's first Law, and, in conserkense, Law Earth's first horder;
The Calf may sit safely hinside, whilst Scapegoats is kep hout of the border.
I can't git the 'ang of his lingo; his patter's all picter somehow,
And wot he quite means by that Calf, mate, I dunno no more than a cow.
But the Scapegoat, that's him, I suppose, and he looks it; it's rough, as he says;
No marbles, no lodging, no grub, and that sort o' thing kep up for days!
But the Scapegoats must not kick up shindies, and stop up our streets and our squares,
That's a moral. Perhaps there is grabbers as wants to swag more than their shares.
I ain't nuts on sweaters myself, and I do 'ate a blood-sucking screw,
Who sponges and never stands Sam, and whose motto's "all cop, and no blue."
Still, this 'ere blooming Hanarchy, Charley, won't do at no figger, dear boy.
A bit of a rorty romp round in the open a chap can enjoy,
But brickbats and hoyster-knives? Walker! Not on in that scene, mate, not me!
And a bash on the nob with a batton is not my idea of a spree.
To bonnet a lot of old blokes and make petticoats squeal is good biz,
But a Crusher's 'ard knuckles a crunching yer scrag? No, I'm blowed if that is!
Let 'em swarm "in their thousands"—the mugs!—and their black and red flags let 'em carry;
But wen they are next on the job they will 'ave to look wide-oh! for
'Arry.
Cuttings and Slips.—The following were extracted from the Manchester Evening News, Nov. 14:—
RESPECTABLE Woman WANTS WASHING, at Altrincham.
RESPECTABLE Widow WANTS WASHING for Tuesday.
The first one is not in a hurry; the second is, and names the day. Then or never. At first we thought it was a new form of advertising Somebody's Soap.