'ARRY ON ANGLING.
Dear Charlie,
'Ow are yer, my arty, and 'ow does this Summer suit you?
Selp me never, old pal, it's a scorcher! I lap lemon-squosh till all's blue,
And then feel as dry as a dust-bin. Want all Spiers and Pond's upon trust,
For it do make a 'ole in the ochre to deal with a true first-class thust.
But it's proper, dear boy, yus it's proper, this weather is, took on the 'ole,
And for 'oliday outings and skylarks it sets a chap fair on the roll.
Where d'yer think as I spent my last bust up? I know you'd be out of the 'unt
If you guessed for a 'ole month o' Sundays. I passed it, old pal, in a punt!
"O Walker!" sez you, "that's 'is gammon!" No, Charlie, it's righteous, dear boy.
It's quite true that to chivvy Thames hanglers is jest what we used to enjoy.
Rekerlek that old buffer at Richmond, and 'ow we shoved foul of his swim,
And lost him a middlin'-sized barbel and set his straw tile on the skim?
Hangling isn't my mark, that's a moral, and fishermen mostly is fools;
To chaff 'em and tip 'em the kibosh is one of my reglarest rules;
And it ain't our sort only as does it, you take the non-anglers all round,
An you'll find that in potting the puntist they're 'Arries right down to the ground.
All our chicest stock-jokes and pet patter they mops up, like mugs as they are,
For they might cut their own chaff, eh, Charlie? not borrow it all from the bar.
But I've seen little toffs in white weskits a slinging our lingo to rights,
About colds, and cock-salmons, and shop 'uns; it's one of the rummiest sights.
Of course they all trot out Sam Johnson; you know the fine crusted old wheeze.
I chucked it one day at a cove as lay stretched at the foot of some trees.
"Fool at one end and worm at the other"? sez he. "Ah! that's neat, and so new,
And as you seem to be worm and fool, one may say 'extremes meet,' Sir, in you."
'Owsomever I've 'ad a day's 'ooking at last, and it wasn't arf bad.
You know since I turned Primrose Leaguer I've mixed with the Toppers, my lad;
And one on 'em, pal of the Prince, I believe, got Jack Jolter a pass
For some fine preserved waters; no pay, mate, and everythink fixed up fust-class.
Jack arsked me and Bell Bonsor to jine him, and seein' it didn't mean tin,
And the 'ole thing seemed swell, with good grubbing and lots o' prime lotion chucked in.
I was "on" like a shot. Bell's a bloomer, and Jack, though a bit of a jug,
Is too long in the purse to let slip; so the game looked all proper and snug.
Jack's a straw-thatched young joker in gig-lamps, good-natured, and nuts on the sport.
He turns up with four rods and two bait-cans, and tackle of every dashed sort.
Such rum-looking gimcracks, my pippin; lines coiled up in boxes and books,
And live-bait, and worms all a-wriggle, and big ugly bunches of 'ooks.
I was a'most afraid to set down, for the things seemed all over the shop,
And Bell she kep startin' and squeakin', a-settin' me fair on the 'op;
Fust a fish as dabbed flop on her 'at, then a 'ook as got snagged in 'er skirt,
It was one blessed squork all the time, mate, though nothink much 'appened to 'urt.
Pooty spot; sort o' lake green and windin', with nice quiet "swims" all about.
Though I must say I missed the Thames gammocks, the snide comic song, and the shout.
No larks at the locks, no collisions, no landings for lotion, you know,
And, but for Miss Bell and the bottle, it might a bin jest a bit slow.
But the prog was A 1, and no kid. Though Jack stuck to his tackle like wax,
Bell and me was soon stodging like winkles; that gal did make play with the snacks.
"Strike!" cries Jack—"you've a bite!" "Yes, I know it," sez I, with my mouth full of 'am.
"Wot do you think, Miss B.?"—and she larfed till 'er cheeks went like raspberry jam.
Jolter looked jest a mossel disgusted, and turned a bit rusty, for him,
When we made the punt rock in our romps, which he said was "disturbing the swim."
And when he had hooked a fine perch, and Miss Bell made a dash at the line,
And the fish flobbered back with a flop, Jack's escape from a cuss cut it fine.
Then he pulled in his "trimmer," and, scissors! a jolly big jack came aboard,
Wich flopped round us, and showed his sharp teeth, till Miss Bonsor went pasty, and roared.
Reg'lar shark; made a grab at my pants when I tried to cut in to Bell's aid;
And I'm blowed if she didn't turn raspy, and chaff me for being afraid.
Arter this things appeared to go quisby; Bell's skirt 'ad got slimed, dontcher see.
And she vowed it was spiled, while Jack looked jest as though he could scrumplicate me.
So sez I, "Let us turn up this barney, and toddle ashore for some grub;"
And we pulled up the stone and the hanchor, and made a bee-line for our pub.
The dinner soon smoothed down our feathers, though Jack 'ad a sad sort o' look.
Selfish fellows these hanglers are, Charlie, they carn't keep their heye off the 'ook.
Bless yer 'art, 'cos we struck arter dinner, and chucked up the perch for a spree,
And took a turn round, me a pulling, that Jack looked as blue as could be.
'Owsomever we chaffed 'im a good 'un. Miss Bell and yours truly got thick,
Wen I told 'er 'er lips wos true "spoon"-bait, she twigged wot I meant pooty quick.
"Oh, I carn't abide anglers," she whispered, "they're flabby and cold like their fish,
'Ow I wish Jack would jest sling 'is 'ook, and leave hus,—well, you know wot I wish."
"Oh. I'm fly, dear," sez I, with a 'ug. So I nobbled the Guard with a tip,
And we managed to nip in fust-class, and so gave Master Jolter the slip.
It give 'im the needle in course, being left in the lurch in this way,
But the petticoats know wot is wot, and so wot's your true dasher to say?
Jack 'as cut me since then at the "Primrose Club," bust 'im! I don't care a toss;
Your angler is always a juggins, so he's no pertikler big loss.
Bell Bonsor is mashed on me proper, and if I'd a fancy to marry,—
But if there's a fish as ain't easy to 'ook it's
Yours artfully, 'Arry.
