'ARRY AT THE SEA-SIDE.
Dear Charlie,
'Ow are you, old oyster? I'm doin' the briny, dear boy;
Got my usual fortnit, yer know, as I makes it a pint to enjoy,
Things is quisby at 'ome, and they pressed me to chuck up my annual spree,
And stand by to look arter the mater who's down with rheumatics. Not me!
Relations are that bloomin' selfish it fair gives a feller the sick,
I'm jest tidy myself, flush of tin, with no end of a thunderin' "pick,"
And now I've a chance of a outing to keep myself up to the mark,
I'm to stay in the doldrums at 'ome! It's too much of a screamin' old lark.
No, Charlie, boy, self-preservation's the fust law of Nature, yer know;
So I jest slung my 'ook like a shot and came here for a bite and a blow.
I'm as red as a bloomin' tomarter already, and talk about stodge!
Jest you arsk the old mivvey as caters for me at the crib where I lodge.
Number Seventeen, Paragon Place, is my diggings, mate, floor Number Three,
From the right'and bow-winder's off-corner you ketch a side-squint of the sea.
White stucco and hemerald sun-blinds, trailed up with a fine "Glory" rose,
And a slavey as pooty as pie, if it weren't for the smuts on her nose.
Oh, I'm up to the knocker, I tell yer; fresh 'errins for breakfast, old pal,
Bottled beer by the bucket, prime 'bacca, and oh, such a scrumptious young gal!
Picked 'er up on the pier, mate, permiskus, last Wensday as ever was. Whew!
She would take the shine out of some screamers, I tell yer, my pippin, would Loo.
Dropped 'er 'at the feet of yours, truly, and 'Arry, of course, was all there.
Her 'airpins went flyin! Thinks I, that's a jolly fine sample of 'air;
As black as my boots, and as shiny, and oh! sech a 'eavenly smell.
"Hillo! Miss," sez I, "while you're 'andy, there's no need for Mister Rimmel."
That nicked 'er, my nibs. It's the patter as does it, of course with good looks;
Gals do like a chap as can gab, as you'll find by them Libery books.
Take Weedee, my boy, or Miss Broughton; you'll see if a feller would tackle
A feminine fair up to dick, he 'as got to be dabs at the cackle.
And that's where I score, my dear Charlie. Lor bless yer, in 'arf an 'our more,
Me and Loo was as cosy as cousins, tucked up in a nook on the shore.
Gives yer 'oliday outing a flaviour, the feminine element do,
Although, ontry noo, dear old pal, it's a tidy stiff drain on yer "screw."
'Owsomever, flare up and blow "exes" is always my motter, yer see;
And I never minds blueing the pieces purwided I gets a good spree;
Wich is jest wot I'm 'aving at present. You'll say, at this pint, I expect,
"'Arry's doing the Toff as per usual." To which, mate, I answers, "Ker-rect!"
Socierty's right, my dear Charlie,—Socierty always is right,—
Gladstone's gab about "masses and classes" is all tommy rot and sour spite.
There is only one class worth consid'rin', and that is the reglar fust-class;
And the chap as don't try to get into it—well, he is simply a ass.
Socierty sez, "When the Season is hover, slide off to the Sea!"
It's the place for a fair autumn barney." And shall I dispute it? Not me.
'Arry knows his tip better than that, Sir. Your juggins may 'ave 'is own whim
About bicycling, boating, or wot not; I mean bein' well in the swim.
Lor, it warms a cove's heart dontcherknow, puts his sperrits right slap on the rise,
Wen the Niggers are dancing a break-down or singing Two Lovely Black Eyes.
To see lardy Toffs and swell ladies, and smart little gals with no fuss,
'Anging round on the listen and snigger as though they wos each one of hus.
They likes it, my lad, yus they likes it, the Music Hall patter and slang.
Yet some jugginses kick at my lingo as vulgar! Oh, let 'em go 'ang.
Take a run, Mister Mealymouthed Critic, go home and eat coke, poor old man.
All Toffs as is Toffs share my tastes; we are built on the very same plan.
Wots the hodds if yer rides in a kerredge, or drives in a double-'orse drag,
With a 'orn and a loud concerteena and lots o' prime prog in the bag?
It is only a question of ochre, the principle's ditto all round.
It is larks by the Sea we all seek, and they suits us all down to the ground.
But now, I am off to the Pier, Charlie. Boat's coming in from Boolong,
And I wouldn't miss that not for nothink. The wind blows a little bit strong,
And there's bound to be lots on 'em quisby, some regular goners, dessay;
And it is sech a lark to chi-ike them, the best bit o' fun of the day.
Old jokers in sealskin caps, Charlie, drawn over their poor blue old ears,
Pooty gals with complexions like paste-pots, old mivvies gone green with the queers;
Little toffs with their billycocks raked, jest to swagger it off like, yer know,
But with hoptics like badly-biled whelks. Oh, I tell yer it's all a prime show.
Larf, Charlie? It bangs Arthur Roberts, and makes a chap bloomin' nigh bust.
I must take a 'am sanwich to munch. Wen a cove ketches sight on it fust,
And I sings out, "Hi! who'll 'ave a fat 'un?" to see that bloke shudder and shrink,
And go gooseberry green in the gills, is too lovely, mate. Wot do you think?
And all this, with the larks on the sands, niggers, spotting the bathers,—that's spiff!—
Sails round, going bobbing for whiting, and singing at night on the cliff,
Not to mention rides out, as per posters, and quiet flirtations with Loo,
I was quietly asked to chuck up 'long o' Mother's rheumatics! Yah boo!
'Arry's not sech a mug, I essure you. Sweet Home is dashed fiddlededee.
I'm not nuts on yer dabby domestic, it spiles a smart chap for a spree.
Ony sorry my time's nearly hup; but, as fur as the ochre will carry,
Do the briny with swells like a swell, is the tip of Yours scrumptiously, 'Arry.
