Well, for that I 'ad to do a bit o' time,
Though I argued it afore the majerstrit
As I'd done it out o' politics, not crime;
But the cuckoo couldn't understand a bit.
So I says when I 'ad left the bloomin' jug,
"I must strike a bigger blow to set us free;
I must play a nobler game." So I forges Rothschild's name,
'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me.
Now, living in a 'ouse acrost the street,
There used to be a very tasty gal;
She'd curly 'air and dainty 'ands and feet,
And was married to my very dearest pal.
'E says to me, says 'e, "When you're our way
Step in, old cull, and 'ave a dish o' tea."
Thinks I, "My dooty this is." So I offs it with 'is missis,
'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to 'er than me.
But I won't be beat by any bloomin' lor,
To 'ave my rights, I tell yer straight, I'm game;
And, once I gets outside this prison door,
I'll strike another blow in Freedom's name—
The lor and all its engines I defy,
From the Stepper to the gloomy gallows-tree;
I'll go and get a knife, and I'll take some joker's life,
'Cause the bloke 'as no more right to it than me."
For my motto is: All should be common to all,
This covey is equal to that;
And if I'm short you've no right to be tall,
If I'm thin you've no right to be fat.
To call me a criminal's fair tommy-rot,
It's on principle all what I've done:
Yet, perish me, all the reward as I've got
Is my number—201.
"SMART."
BY MARK THYME.
(Being a few hints to any of the fair citizens of this town who may contemplate spending a season or two in London.)
Ye Belles of Bloemfontein, pray hearken unto me,
And I'll show you how to sparkle in polite Society.
Never fear that you'll be visited with contumely or scorn
If you happen not to be aristocratically born,
For mere birth is not essential to means, if only you
Have the luck to be related to a brewer or a few;
And if only you have money, you need never be afraid
To swagger of the swindles of your former days of trade.
And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
Each to each will the opinion impart:
"She is vulgar, I admit,
I don't like her, not a bit,
But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
Your dress must be—well—daring! You must have a tiny waist
And the colours must be splashed about in execrable taste.
Your bodice may be decent while you've still the gift of youth,
But must lower in proportion as you're longer in the tooth.
The colour of your hair and your complexion must appear
To vary with the fashionable fancies of the year,
And though your wit lack lustre, the tiara must be bright
That you've hired out from a jeweller's at ten-and-six a night.
And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
Each to each will the opinion impart:
"Looks quite odd, I must admit,
I don't like her, not a bit,
But then you know, my dear, she's smart."
Then, as to conversation, let each syllable you speak
Be vehemently vapid or else pruriently weak;
Tell some tales distinctly risky, if not actually obscene,
While artfully pretending that you don't know what they mean.
In the intervals of slander you must prate in flippant tone
On some Theologic subject that you'd better leave alone;
And, though your speech be witless, nay, to some may seem absurd,
It matters not if reputations die at every word.
And your friends, as they receive you to their heart,
Each to each the opinion will impart:
"She's ill-natured, I admit,
I don't like her, not a bit,
But then you know, my dear, she's smart."