If all t' kisses as Oi ha' tuke
Wuz zet down vair an' square inter buke,
Lard! Lard! 'twud make t' greaät volk say:
"What a tur'ble chap is ole Joe Gay!"
Vor it du zet ma brain a-swimmin'
Tu think o' all t' hundered wimmin
As Oi ha' bussed 'hind hedge an' door
Zince vust Oi cuddled dree or vour.
Polly Potter, Trixie Trotter, Gertie Gillard, Zairy Zlee,
Zusan Zettle, Connie Kettle, Daisy Doble, La'ra Lee,
Hesther Holley, Jinny Jolly, Nelly Northam, Vanny Vail,
Ivery maid in Coompton Regis—dang it, whoy,
Oi've bussed 'em all!
When Oi vust went to Zunday skule,
Passen's darter, on greaät high stule,
Taakes me oop on 'ur lady knee,
An' kissed ov Oi, zo Oi kissed ov she!
An', arter skule, zure-ly, Oi vollers
T' little blushin' vemale scholars
All round t' orchards, an' under stacks,
Oi bussed t' lot, an' yew can ax—
Polly Potter, Trixie Trotter, Gertie Gillard, Zairy Zlee,
Zusan Zettle, Connie Kettle, Daisy Doble, La'ra Lee,
Hesther Holley, Jinny Jolly, Nelly Northam, Vanny Vall,
Ivery gal in Coompton Regis—ax the lot, Oi've kissed 'em all!
Thur's not a lane vur moiles around
But hassen heerd ma kisses zound,
Nor dru t' parish will 'ee vind
A door Oi hanna kissed behind;
An' now, wid crutch, an' back bent double,
T' rheumatiz doän't gie naw trouble,
Vor all t' ould grannies handy-boi
Iz mazed, vair mazed, on cuddlin' Oi!
Pore-house Potter, toothless Trotter, gouty Gillard, splea-foot Zlee,
Zilly Zettle, cock-eyed Kettle, deaf ould Doble, limpin' Lee,
Husky Holley, jaundy Jolly, Nanny Northam, vractious Vall,
All t' ould gals in Coompton Regis, bless their hearts, Oi love 'em all!
MR. BROOKFIELD IN HIS YOUTH
[Sidenote: W.H. Brookfield]
My Dear Venables,
Notwithstanding the proverbial irregularity of the English mails and the infamous practice of Government in embezzling all private letters for the King's private reading, yours of the 17th eluded observation at the post office so as to reach me; and was as acceptable as, considering the wearisome frequency of your communications lately, could possibly be expected.
My last was a scrawl from Althorp—where we spent six weeks. That there are 60,000 volumes you know. I read them all, excepting a pamphlet in a patois of the Sanscrit, written by a learned, but, I regret to add, profane Hindoo Sectarian, the blasphemous drift of which was to prove that Bramah's locks were not all patent.
We went to town to the fiddling[9] which it was the pill[10] of the day to cry down. I was much gratified by the show and altogether. I sate by the Duke of Wellington, who was good enough to go out to fetch me a pot of porter. When "See the Conquering Hero comes" was sung in Judas Maccabeus, all eyes were turned upon me. I rose and bowed—but did not think the place was suited for any more marked acknowledgment. The King sang the Coronation Anthem exceedingly well, and Princess Victoria whistled the "Dead March" in Saul with, perhaps, rather less than her usual effect. But the chef d'oeuvre was confessed by all to be Macaulay in "The Praise of God and of the Second Day." I rose a wiser, and, I think, a sadder man.
Bishop of Worcester spent two days here last week. He begged me with tears in his eyes to be Bishop instead of him. I took a night to consider of it and to examine into my fitness for such a charge—but in the morning gave answer with the elaborateness which the occasion demanded that I would see him … first.
THE AUTHOR OF "ALICE"
[Sidenote: Lewis Carroll]