'ARRY ON 'ARRISON AND THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH.
DEAR CHARLIE,—No Parry for me, mate, not this season leastways—wus luck!
At the shop I'm employed in at present, the hands has all bloomin' well struck.
It's hupset all our 'olidays, CHARLIE, and as to my chance of a rise
Wot do you think, old pal? I'm fair flummoxed, and singing, Oh, what a surprise!
These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain't, dear old boy.
They're all over the shop, like Miss ZÆO, wot street-kids seems so to enjoy.
Mugs' game! They'll soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be worried and welched,
And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought to be squelched.
'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set against Wealth
Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national 'ealth.
There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere bellerers ban.
Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it, old man?
Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of St. Grouse,"
On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut of the 'Ouse,
Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to the Moors.
Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs and the boors!
Yet this 'ARRISON he sets his back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle a gun,
I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion of Fun.
"Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot he says, sour old sap
Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise—eh, old chap?
Him sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather and fur,
So long as yer never kills nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives me the spur.
Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things to be shot?
"This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling old wag.
From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag!
"Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no luncheons, no game!
Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton with shame.
No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE, this round;
But give me my gun, and a chance, and I'll be in the swim, I'll be bound.
I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with 'em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer mayn't be a dunce.
My rig out was a picter they told me—deer-stalker and knickers O.K.—
"BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to his lay;
But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in mustard-and-mud-colour checks.
Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the primest of pecks.
Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I'd soon ha' cleaned out Charing Cross,
With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye of the boss;
Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames Street, bit warm
In his langwige occasional, CHARLIE, but 'arty and reglar good form.
Swells will pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis Big Shoot,
And there wos some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on the good gay galoot,
But I fancy I got jest a morsel screwdnoodleous late in the day,
For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but 'twas only his play.
Bagged a brace and a arf, I did, CHARLIE; not bad for a novice like me.
Jest a bit blown about the fust two; wanted gathering up like, yer see.
A bird do look best with his 'ed on, dear boy, as a matter of taste;
And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural 'aste.
Never arsked me no more, for some reason. But wot I would say is this here,
'ARRY's bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark pooty near,
And when 'ARRISON talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy and strong,
About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, 'ARRISON'S wrong!
He would rather shoot broken-down cab-horses,—so the mug tells us—than birds.
Well, they're more in his line very likely; that means, in his own chosen words,
He's more fit for a hammytoor knacker than for that great boast of our land,
A true British Sportsman! Great Scott! It's a taste as I carnt understand.
Fact is this here FRED is a Demmycrat, Positivist, and all that.
There's the nick o' the matter, the reason of all this un-English wild chat.
He is down on the Aristos, CHARLIE, this 'ARRISON is. It's the Court
And the pick o' the Peerage Sport nobbles, and that's wy he sputters at Sport.
All a part of the game, dear old pal, the dead-set at the noble and rich.
"Smart people" are "Sports," mostly always, and 'ARRISON slates them as sich.
'Ates killing of "beautiful creatures," and spiling "the Tummel in spate"
With "drives," champagne luncheons, and gillies? That's not wot sich slab-dabbers 'ate.
It's "Privileged Classes," my pippin, they loathes. Yer can't own a big Moor,
Or even rent one like my dry-salter friend, if yer 'umble and poor.
Don't 'ARRISON never eat grouse? Ah, you bet, much as ever he'll carry.
There's "poz" for a Posit'vist, mate, there's 'ARRISON kiboshed by 'ARRY.