SWEETNESS AND LIGHT.
| 'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND. Dear Charlie,—You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll be bound. Not for Parry alone, mate, this time—I've bin doing the Reglar Swiss Round. Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, Charlie—guess it's a sight you'd enjoy To see 'Arry, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss Boy. 'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by rail, But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest scale; Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old chap; And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on the rap. Talk of hups and downs, Charlie! North Devon I found pooty steep, as you know, But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed Young Frow? I got 'andy with halpenstocks, Charlie, and never came much of a spill; But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer Primrose 'Ill. But that's entry nous, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper out 'ere. 'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel,—no fear! When I slipped down a bloomin' crevassy, I did do a bit of a 'owl, On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat on the prowl. Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie—Guide swore 'twas all my hown fault, Cos I would dance, and sing too-ral-li-ety, arter he'd hordered a halt. Awful gonophs, them Guides, and no herror; they don't know their place, not a mite, And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I looked sich a sight. | ||
Father Chrismas not in it with me, Charlie—sort of big snowball on legs;
And cold, Charlie? Flasks was no use, could ha' gurgled neat Irish in kegs.
Still, I wosn't much 'urt, mate, thanks be—only needled a bit in my pride,
And I soon got upsides with the party, and fair took it hout of that Guide.
He'd a mash at Chermooney—neat parcel enough, though in course not my style;
Couldn't patter her lingo—wus luck!—but I could do the lardy, and smile;
And that Merry Swiss Boy got so jealous, along o' some capers o' mine,
That I'm sure, if he'd twigged arf a chance, he'd a chucked me slap into the Rhine.
Then I tried Shammy-hunting, old pal, but I didn't make much of a bag,
Stalking curly-'orned goats in a country all precipice, hice-hill, and crag,
Might suit Mister Manfred, it may be—he didn't seem nuts on his life;
But give me rabbit-potting in Devon, where rocks is not edged like a knife.
'Ad a try arter Idlewise, too—sort o' fluffy-leaved, snow-coloured flower—
'All the mugs seem to set heaps o' store by—I sent a bit on to Bell Bower.
Though she would prefer a camelia. Bell calls all them forren gals "cats";
Wonder what she'd ha' said to see me spooning round 'midst short skirts and longplaits!
They'd a bit of a Buy-a-broom flaviour, and seemed a mite wooden to kiss;
But a gal's a gal all the world hover. In Switzerland, 'Arry, is Swiss.
Yus, the country of Shallys and Shammys is jest a bit trying, no doubt;
But there's larks to be 'ad near Mong Blong, if a party knows what he's about.
'Ad enough on it arter a fort-nit, though. Scenery's all mighty fine,
But too much of yer Halpine Club bizness is boko, and not in my line.
I remember them Caffys, dear boy, Roo der Caire and the Tower, so, thinks I,
Slippin' 'ome I'll take France on the way, and go in for a bit of a fly.
I done Parry a treat, mate, this time. 'Ad a ride in the Bor der Boolong;
You may see, by the sketch I've inclosed, as I came out perticular strong.
It is honly hus English can ride. Frogs ain't in it ah shovel, yer know.
They in fack always fails in Ler Sport, though they gives Bull a lead at Ler Bo!
L'Horloge ain't arf bad. Snakes! sich voices! The cackle and gag, too, fust-rate;
My Parisian pal 'elped me out, but my larf was sometimes a bit late,
And so flummoxed the Frenchies a few; one old chap in blue blouse and cropped hair
Must ha' thought me a walking conundrum, to judge by his thunderstruck stare.
I was togged in stror 'at and striped flannels; I'd 'ad the straight tip from a chum;
I cried, "Beast!"—that's the French for Hangore, quite O. K., though I own it sounds rum,
I gave mouth to the Pa-ta-ta chorus, I slapped the Garsong on the back;
And, sez I, "Say ler jolliest lark, que jay voo poor kelk tom, that's a fack!"
