BUMBLE AT HOME;
OR, THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT.
"Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral exertions on the part of this parish," said BUMBLE, "we have not been able to—do anythink."—Oliver Twist.
Mr. Bumble, loquitur:—
GR-R-R-R!!! Old-fashioned Winter, indeed! Well, I 'ope them as talks on it relishes it!
The City seems give up to snow; which I can't say it greatly embellishes it.
But, really, of all the dashed imperence,—s'posing of course as they meant it,—
The greatest is that of the Papers appealing to Me to pervent it!
Ah! it's a hinsolent Hage, and without no respect for Authority.
The cry of them demmycrat 'owlers is all for low In-fe-ri-or-ity.
Things is about bottom uppards, as far as I judges, already,
And if the porochial dignity's floored, what is left to stand steady?
Progressists, indeed! Ah, I'd "progress" 'em, pack o' perposterous hasses,
A regular pollyglot lot, breeding strife 'twixt the classes and masses.
The masses is muck; that's my motter, as who should have learnt it more betterer?
BUMBLE could hopen the heyes of them BOOTHSES, JOHN BURNSES, ancetterer.
Snow? Is it me brings the snow, and the hice, and the peasoupy slushiness,
Making the subbubs one slough? No! The Age is give over to gushiness.
Parties as writes to the Papers is snivellers, yus, every one of 'em,
Barring the few as cracks jokes, though I own as I can't see the fun of 'em.
Look at "UCALEGON," now, him as writes to a cheap daily journal,
Along o' the '"Orrors of 'Ampstead," as he calls hy—wot's it?—"hybernal,"
(Wotever that crackjaw may mean) or that fellow, "INFELIX THE"—blow it.
Sech names you can't write nor yet spell, if you're not a School Board or a Poet.
Talks of our "hard hide," does, "INFELIX," I'd like to lay hands upon hisn!
All becos Upper 'Ampstead, it seems, is a sort of a dark ice-bound prison.
No 'busses, no trams, and no cabs, no grub, and no gas, and no water!
Ha! ha! Pooty picter it is, and thanks be I don't dwell in that quarter!
But wot's it to do with poor Me? If he wants it himproved he had best try
Them proud County-Councillor coves, not come wallopping into the Westry.
Wot use, too, to talk of Wienna? Don't know where that is, and don't wanter,
But, 'cording to "SNOWBOUND," their style of snow-clearing beats ourn in a canter.
Ratepayers' Defencers may rave, and the scribblers may scold or talk funny,
But clean streets in Winter mean this,—you must plank down a dollup more money!
Me up and be doing meanwhile? No, not if I jolly well knows it.
I likes my own fireside too well to go snow-clearing, don't you suppose it.
A choice between slither and slush may come 'ard on the Mighty Metrolopus,
But Westrydom ain't on the job, 'owsomever they worry and wallop us.
Bless yer, we've stood it before, and can stand it agen, all this fussing.
My game's a swig and a smoke; as for them—they can go on "discussing."
[Shuts door, and retires to his snuggery for spirituous solace.
