'ARRY ON HIS CRITICS.
Dear Charlie,
I'm much obligated for that there St. James's Gazette
As you sent me larst Satterday's post. I 'ave read it with hintrest, you bet;
Leastways, more pertikler the harticle writ on "yours truly," dear boy;
Wich the paper is one as a gent who is reelly a gent can enjoy.
I shall paternize it with much pleasure; it's steep, but it's puffect good form.
Seems smart at the "ground" and the "lofty," and makes it tremenjusly warm
For Willyum the Woodchopper. Scissors! His name's never orf of their lips.
Wy, it's worth a fair six d a week jest to see 'em a slating Old Chips!
Proves as 'Arry is well to the front wen sech higperlite pens pop on him,
Does me proud and no herror, dear pal; shows we're both in the same bloomin' swim.
Still, they don't cop my phiz quite ker-rect; they know Gladstone right down to the ground;
But I ain't quite so easy 'it off, don'tcher see, if you take me all round.
Old Collars is simple as lyin', becos he's all bad, poor old 'ack,
And you can't be fur out in his portrait as long as you slop on the black.
But I'm quite another guess sort; penny plain, tuppence coloured, yer see,
May do all very well for the ruck; but they'll find it won't arnser for me!
I'm a daisy, dear boy, and no 'eeltaps! I wish the St. James's young man
Could drop into my diggings permiskus; he's welcome whenever he can;
For he isn't no J., that's a moral; I don't bear no malice; no fear!
But I'd open 'is hoptics a mossel concernin' my style and my spere.
The essence of 'Arry, he sez, is high sperrits. That ain't so fur out.
I'm "Fiz," not four 'arf, my dear feller. Flare-up is my motter, no doubt.
Carn't set in a corner canoodling, and do the Q. T. day and night.
My mug, mate, was made for a larf, and you don't ketch it pulling a kite.
So fur all serene; but this joker, I tell yer, runs slap orf the track
Wen he says that my togs and my talk are "the fashion of sev'ral years back."
The slang of the past is my patter—mine, Charlie, he sez! Poor young man!
If I carn't keep upsides with the cackle of snide 'uns, dear Charlie, who can?
Wot is slang, my dear boy, that's the question. The mugs and the jugs never joke,
Never gag, never work in a wheeze; no, their talk is all skilly and toke,
'Cos they ain't got no bloomin' hinvention; they keeps to the old line of rails,
With about as much "go" as a Blue Point, about as much rattle as snails.
Mavor's Spellin' and Copybook motters is all they can run to. But slang?
Wy, it's simply smart patter, of wich ony me and my sort 'as the 'ang.
Snappy snideness put pithy, my pippin, the pick of the chick and the hodd,
And it fettles up talk, my dear Charlie, like 'ot hoyster sauce with biled cod.
"Swell vernacular"? Swells don't invent it; they nick it from hus, and no kid.
Did a swell ever start a new wheeze? Would it 'ave any run if he did?
Let the ink-slingers trot out their kibosh, and jest see 'ow flabby it falls.
Bet it won't raise a grin at the bar, bet it won't git a 'and at the 'Alls.
And fancy my slang being stale, Charlie! Gives me the needle, that do.
In course I've been in it for years, mate, and mix up the old and the new;
But if the St. James's young gentleman fancies hisself on this lay,
I'll "slang" him for glasses all round, him whose patter fust fails 'im to pay.
Then he sez, "'Arry's always a Londoner." Shows 'Arry ain't no bad judge.
"Wot the crockerdile is to the Nile 'Arry is to the Thames." Well, that's fudge.
That's a ink-slinger's try-on at patter. Might jest as well call me a moke.
Try another, young man; this is kibosh purtending to pass for a joke.
Wen he sez my god's "go,"—well he's 'it it. Great Scott! wot is life without "go"?
But "loud, slangy, vulgar"? No, 'ang it, young man, this is—well, there, it's low.
Me vulgar! a Primroser, Charlie, a true "Anti-Radical" pot!
No, excuse me, St. J., I admire you; but this is all dashed tommy-rot.
Stale, too, orful stale, my young josser. It's wot all the soap-crawlers say,
If a party 'as "go" and "high sperrits"—percise wot you praise me for, hay?—
If he "can laugh aloud," as you say I can, better than much finer folk,
Will you ticket 'im "vulgar," for doin' it? Oh, you go 'ome and eat coke!
Leastways I don't mean that exackly; I like you too well; you're my sort;
But you ain't took my measure kerrect, I'm a Tory, a patriot, a "sport."
So wy should you round on me thusly? I call it a little mite mean.
If I took and turned Radical now; but oh! no, 'Arry isn't so green.
'Owsomever in one thing you've nicked me. No marriage
for 'Arry, sez you.
O, right you are, chummie! I'm single, you bet, though I'm turned twenty-two,
And I've 'ad lots o' chances, I tell yer; fair 'ot 'uns, old man, and no kid.
But I'll 'ave a free run for my money, as long as I'm good for a quid.
Yah! Marriage is orful queer paper; it's fatal, dear boy, as you say,
It damps down the rortiest dasher, it spiles yer for every prime lay.
No; gals is good fun, wives wet blankets, that's wot my egsperience tells,
And the swells foller me on that track, though you say as I follers the swells.
Wot odds arter all? We're jest dittos! I'm not bad at bottom, sez you.
Well, thankye for nothink, my joker. As long as I've bullion to blue,
I mean to romp round a rare buster, lark, lap, take the pick of the fun,
And, bottom or top, good or bad, keep my heye on one mark—Number One!
There, Charlie, that's 'ow I should answer my criticks. They ain't nicked me yet,
Not even the pick o' the basket, 'im of the St. James's Gazette.
He's not a bad sort though, I reckon. Laugh, lark, cut a dash, never marry!
Yus, it only want's my fillin' in to make that a fair photo, of
'Arry.