'ARRY ON ARRIUS.
With some Consideration concerning Compulsory Classics.
DEAR CHARLIE,—O, ain't I a daisy? Excuse your old pal busting forth;
But my name's going hup like a rocket; it's spreading east, west, south, and north.
Like that darned hinfluenza, but more so; and now, s'elp me scissors, I find
I was famous afore I was born! Sounds a licker, but 'anged if I mind.[1]
DAN the Dosser, a reglar Old Clo' at dead langwidges, classicks, and such,
Says it's met'em-see-kosis—a thing as to me, mate, is jest Double Dutch,
Means a soul on the shift, as it were, CHARLIE, tryin' fust this form, then that,
So that 'ARRY, who once was a donkey, might some o' these days be a rat!
Leastways so the Dosser explains it, of course it is all Tommy rot.
Rummy thing 'ow a cram o' the Classicks do make yer a reglar crackpot.
Dosser hain't no more genuine savvy, he hain't, than a 'aporth o' snuff;
But he's up to the lips-like in Latin, and similar old-fashioned stuff.
Seems some old Latin cove called CAT ULLUS—a gayish old dog I should say
Knew a party called ARRIUS!—bless 'im!—as lived in that rum Roman day,
And CAT ULLUS he hups and he scribbles a "carmen"—wich then meant a song,
Not a hopera, CHARLIE—about him along of some haitches gone wrong.
Like CAT ULLUS's cheek, if you arsk me! That haitch bizness gives me the 'ump.
There isn't a hignerent mug, or a mealy-mouthed mutton-faced pump
Who 'as learned 'ow to garsp hout a He-haw! in regular la-di-dah style,
But'll look down on "'ARRY the haitchless," and wrinkle his snout in a smile.
Yah! Haitches ain't heverythink, CHARLIE, no, not by a jugfull they hain't.
And yer "H-heah! H-hold my H-h-horse!" sort o' sniffers would screw hout big D.'s from a saint.
What's the hodds, arter all? If you're fly to the true hend of Life, wich is larks,
You may pop in yer haitches permiskus, in spite of the prigs' rude remarks.
The old Roman geeser, CAT ULLUS, who wrote that de Arrio bosh,
Wos a poet, of course, and a classick, two things as to-day will not wash;
Bet yer boots Master ARRIUS 'ad 'im on toast, the old mug, every time,
And that's why he took his revenge like, in verse without reason or rhyme.
Young ARRIUS's huncle, he tells us, talked similar patter. No doubt!
Havunculus hejus, I reckon, knew wot he was dashed well about.
I say bully for LIBER, and chance it. 'Tain't whether you say Hill or 'Ill,
It's whether you're able to climb it; and that's where the prigs git their pill.
There's a party who, in the St. James's Gazette, dear old pal, 'tother day,
Took my name, not pertikler in vain, though, and called hisself "'ARRY B.A."
Wrote smart, he did, CHARLIE, and slick-like, but "'ARRY B.A." isn't Me!
No fear! 'ARRY's not sech an A double S as to want a "Degree."
I know wot's wuth knowin', I reckon, and wot I don't know I can learn,
Without mortar-board 'ats and black bedgowns, or stuffing my brains till they turn.
To be well in the know is my maxum, but as for "Compulsory Greek,"
Would it give me, I wonder, a hextry "compulsory" two quid a week?
Wy, I knew an old 'atchet-faced party, as lodged in our 'ouse years ago,
Oozed Greek as a plum-tree does gum-blobs; trarnslated for BUFFINS & Co.,
The popular publishers, CHARLIE. I know 'twas a dooce of a grind
For poor MAGSWORTH to earn fifteen quid, and at last he went hout of 'is mind.
Yus, died of a softening, they told us, through sitting up six months on end
At a book of Greek plays. Poor old buffer, he hadn't five pounds nor a friend;
But Degrees? He fair rolled in 'em, CHARLIE! He offered to teach me a lot,
But one lesson in Greek settled me; it's the crackjorest speshus of rot!
ARRY STUFFY KNEES sounds pooty ropy; he's one of their classickal pets;
Old THOOSY DIDES, too, he's another. In high Huniwarsity sets
They chuck 'em in chunks at each other, like mossels of Music 'All gag,
And at forty they've clean slap forgot 'em! I want to know where comes the swag?
Hedgercation is all very proper, purviding it gives yer the pull
Hover parties as don't know the ropes, in a market that's mostly too full;
But this Classick kerriculum's kibosh, Greek plays, Latin verse and all that.
All CAT ULLUS's haitches won't 'elp yer, if Nature 'as built yer a flat!
Though ARRIUS's haspirates rucked, and made Mister CAT ULLUS chi-ike,
He was probably jest such a rattler as poets and prigs never like,
When a chap knows 'is book, piles the ochre, perhaps becomes pal to a Prince,
Lor! it's wonderful 'ow a dropped haitch or two do make the mealy-mouths wince.
Wot's a haitch but a garsp, arter all? Yer swell haspirate's only a breath,
Yet, like eating green peas with a knife, it scumfoodles the sniffers to death,
As a fack the knife's 'andiest, fur, and there's many a haitch-screwing toff
Who would find patter easier biz if the motter was "haspirates is hoff!"
The 'Igher Hedgercation means "savvy"; you size up the world, patter slang,
Hit slick, give what for, and Compulsory Latin and Greek may go 'ang.
That's "modernity," CHARLIE! Style, modesty, taste? Oh, go 'ome and eat coke!
Old STUFFY KNEES wouldn't 'ave tumbled, you bet, to a Music 'All joke.
"Jest fancy a gentleman not knowing Greek!" So a josser named FROUDE
Said some time ago. Oh Gewillikens! Must ha' bin dotty or screwed.
A modern School Master could hopen his hoptics a mossel, you bet;
Greek's corpsed, and them graduate woters will flock to its funeral yet.
"We're going to plant it to-morrer!" That comic song 'its it at once.
"Attic lore" will be blowed attic-high; and the duffers who dub you a dunce
'Cos yer 'OMER, or haitches, is quisby, in Rome or in London, will know
That ARRIUS—or 'ARRY—romps in while CAT ULLUS is stopping to blow.
As to ARRIUS, I wish I'd 'ave knowed 'im, no doubt we'd 'ave palled up to-rights,
And 'ave chivied CAT ULLUS together, like one o' them broken-nosed frights
Saps call elassick busts; stone Aunt Sallies fit only for cockshies, dear boy,
Wich to chip out my name on their cheeks is a barney I always enjoy.
Your Cockney eternal? No doubt! And a jolly good job, I should say;
It's much more than yer conkey old Classicks, for they 'ave about 'ad their day.
You may stuff college ganders with all the compulsory cram as they'll carry,
And then it's yer fly bird as scores off 'em, whether that's ARRIUS or
'ARRY.
Footnote 1: [(return)]
See article, "'Arry in Rome and London," in last Number of Punch.
