'ARRY ON THE BOULEVARDS.
It's expected, old man, it's expected. Jest fancy me slinging my 'ook
For old Turmutshire, going out nuttin', or bobbing for fish in a brook!
Not der wriggle, dear boy, I assure you. Could stars of Mayfair be content
To round upon Rome or the Riggi, and smug up in Surrey or Kent?
No fear! Cherry orchards is pooty, and 'ops 'as admirers, no doubt;
But it's only when sport is afoot as the country's worth fussin' about.
Your toff likes the turmuts or stubbles when poultry is there to be shot.
But corn-fields and cabbage-beds, CHARLIE? Way oh! that's all middle-class rot.
There wos a time, CHARLIE, I own it, when Richmond 'ud do me to rights.
And a fortnight at Margit meant yum-yum to look for and dream on o' nights;
I was innercent then, a young geeser, too modest for this world, dear boy;
Didn't know you'd to do wot was proper, and not what you think you'd enjoy.
Ah! Nobbles obliges, old pardner, and great is the power of "form";
Rads may rail at "the clarses" like ginger, but all on us likes to be "warm,"
And rub shoulders with suckles more shiny. Wy, life's greatest pulls, dont cherknow,
Are to look up to sparklers above us, and down on poor duffers below.
'Ardly know wich is lummiest, swelp me! It's nuts to 'ook on to a swell,
Like I did at a Primrose meet lately with sweet Lady CLARE CARAMEL.
When her sunshade shone red on my face, mate, me givin' my arm through the crush,
Wy I felt like Mong Blong in the mornin', and looked like a bride, one big blush.
NODDY SPRIGGINS, he spotted me, CHARLIE,—him being left out in the cold,—
And to see him sit down on his topper, and turn off as yaller as gold,
Wos as good as a pantermime. Oh! if there's one thing more nicer than pie,
It's to soar like a bird in the sight of the flats as can't git on the fly.
But I'm wandering, CHARLIE, I'm wandering. 'Oliday form is my text.
Last year it was Parry and Switzerland; 'ardly know where to go next.
I should much like to try Monty Carlo, and 'ave a fair flutter for once,
But I fear it won't run to it, pardner; my boss is the dashdest old dunce.
Won't raise me to three quid a week, the old skinflint. Though travelling's cheap,
It do scatter the stamps jest a few, if you don't care to go on the creep.
Roolette might jest set me up proper, but then, dontcherknow, it might not,
And I fear I should come back cleared out, if my luck didn't land me a pot.
Oh, dash them spondulicks! The pieces is all as I wants for my 'elth.
And then them darned Sosherlist jugginses 'owl till all's blue agin Wealth.
It gives me the ditherums, CHARLIE; it do, dear old man, and no kid.
Wy, they 'd queer the best pitches in life, if they kiboshed the Power of the Quid!
There's Venice again! I could start this next week with a couple o' pals;
But yer gondoler's 'ardly my form, and I never wos nuts on canals.
WAGGLES says they're not like the Grand Junction, as creeps sewer-like through our parks;
Well, WAGGLES may sniff; I'm not sure, up to now, mate, as Venice means larks.
'Arf a mind to try Parry once more. It's a place as you soon git to love;
There is always some fun afoot there, as will keep a chap fair on the shove.
Pooty scenery's all very proper, but glaciers and snow-peaks do pall,
And as to yer bloomin' Black Forests, the Bor der Boolong beats 'em all.
After all, there is something quite 'ome-like in Parry—so leastways I think;
It's a place where you don't seem afraid to larf 'arty, or tip gals the wink;
Sort o' san janey feeling about it, my pippin'—you know wot I mean.
You don't feel too fur from old Fleet Street, steaks, "bitter," and "God Save the Queen!"
When your Britisher travels, he travels, but likes to be Britisher still;
With his Times and his "tub" he is 'appy; without 'em he's apt to feel ill.
Wy, when I was last year in Parry, I went for a Bullyvard crawl
One night arter supper, when who should I spot but my pal BOBBY BALL.
He wos doin' the gay at a Caffy, was BOB, petty vair, and all that,
Togged up to the nines with his claw-hammer, cuff-shooters, gloves, and crush-hat.
"Wot cheer, BOBBY, old buster!" I bellered; and up from his paper he looks.
Ah! and didn't we 'ave a rare night on it, CHARLIE! We both know our books.
But wot do you think BOB was reading? The Times! I could twig it at once.
He might 'ave 'ung on to Gil Blars, or the Figgero,—BOB ain't a dunce—
But lor! not a bit on it, CHARLIE; the Britisher stuck out to rights;
'Twas JOHN BULL's big, well-printed old broad-sheet! Jest one of the pootiest sights!
TORTONI'S is all very spiffing, the Bullyvard life is A 1,
And the smart little journals of Parry, though tea-paper rags, is good fun;
But a Briton abroad is a Briton; chic, spice, azure pictures, rum crimes,
Is all very good biz in their way, but they do not make up for our Times!
Well, I'm not on for Turmutshire, CHARLIE, not this time; and now you know why.
Carn't yer jest turn the tables, old hoyster, and come for a bit of a fly?
Cut the chawbacons, run up to London, jine me, and we'll pal off to Parry;
And if yer don't find it a 'Oliday Skylark, wy, never trust.
'ARRY.
VICE VERSÂ.—The French Ministers are away from Paris for their vacation. M. DEVELLE, it is said, has gone to La Bourboule. This is better for the place than La Bourboule going to the Develle.
