'ARRY ON THE SINCEREST FORM OF FLATTERY.
DEAR CHARLIE,—Your faviour to 'and in doo course, as the quill-drivers say;
Likeways also the newspaper cuttins enclosed. You're on Rummikey's lay.
Awful good on yer, CHARLIE, old chummy, to take so much trouble for me;
But do keep on yer 'air, dear old pal; I am still right end uppards, yer see.
You are needled along of some parties,—er course you ain't fly to their names,—
As has bin himitating Yours Truly. Way-oh! It's the oldest o' games,
Himitation is, CHARLIE. It makes one think DARWIN was right, anyhow,
And that most on us did come from monkeys, which some ain't so fur from 'em now.
You start a smart game, or a paying one—something as knocks 'em, dear boy,
No matter, mate, whether it's mustard, or rhymes, or a sixpenny toy;
They'll be arter you, nick over nozzle, the smuggers of notions and nips,
For the mugs is as 'ungry for wrinkles as broken-down bookies for tips.
Look at DICKENS, dear boy, and Lord TENNYSON—ain't they bin copied all round?
Wy, I'm told some as liked ALFRED's verses at fust, is now sick of the sound;
All along o' the parrots, my pippin. Ah, that's jest the wust o' sech fakes!
People puke at the shams till they think the originals ain't no great shakes.
'Tain't fair, CHARLIE, not by a jugful, but anger's all fiddle-de-dee;
They may copy my style till all's blue, but they won't discombobulate me.
Names and metres is anyone's props; but of one thing they don't get the 'ang;
They ain't fly to good patter, old pal, they ain't copped the straight griffin on slang.
'Tisn't grammar and spellin' makes patter, nor yet snips and snaps of snide talk.
You may cut a moke out o' pitch-pine, mate, and paint it, but can't make it walk.
You may chuck a whole Slang Dixionary by chunks in a stodge-pot of chat,
But if 'tisn't alive, 'tain't chin-music, but kibosh, and corpsey at that.
Kerrectness be jolly well jiggered! Street slang isn't Science, dear pal,
And it don't need no "glossery" tips to hinterpret my chat to my gal.
I take wot comes 'andy permiskus, wotever runs sliok and fits in,
And when smugs makes me out a "philolergist,"—snuffers! it do make me grin!
Still there's fitness, dear boy, and unfitness, and some of these jossers, jest now,
Who himitate 'ARRY's few letters with weekly slapdabs of bow-wow,
'Ave about as much "fit" in their "slang" as a slop-tailor's six-and-six bags.
No, Yours Truly writes only to you, and don't spread hisself out in the Mags.
Mister P. prints my letters, occasional, once in a while like, dear boy;
For patter's like love-letters, CHARLIE, too long and too frequent, they cloy.
I agree there with Samivel Veller. My echoes I've no wish to stop,
But I'd jest like to say 'tisn't me as is slopping' all over the shop.
It do give me the ditherums, CHARLIE, it makes me feel quite quisby snitch,
To see the fair rush for a feller as soon as he's found a good pitch.
Jest like anglers, old man, on the river; if one on 'em spots a prime swim,
And is landing 'em proper, you bet arf the others'll crowd about him.
But there's law for the rodsters, I'm told, CHARLIE; so many foot left and right;
And you'll see the punts spotted at distance, like squodrons of troops at a fight.
But in Trade, Art, and Littery lines, CHARLIE, 'anged if there's any fair play,
And the "cullerable himitation" is jest the disgrace of the day.
Sech scoots scurryfunging around on the gay old galoot, to go snacks
In the profits of other folks' notions, have put you, old pal, in a wax.
Never mind their shenanigan, CHARLIE; it don't do much hurt, anyhow;
I was needled a trifle at fust, but I'm pooty scroodnoodleous now.
I'm all right and a arf, mate, I am, and ain't going' to rough up, no fear!
Becos two or three second-hand 'ARRIES is tipping the public stale beer.
The old tap'll turn on now and then, not too often, and as for the rest,
The B.P. has a taste for sound tipple, and knows when it's served with the best.
If mine don't 'old its own on its merits, then way-oh! for someone's as does!
All cop and no blue ain't my motter; that's all tommy-rot and buz-wuz.
The pace of a yot must depend on her lines and the canvas she'll carry;
If rivals can crowd on more sail, wy they're welcome to overhaul 'ARRY.
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.