Sticking down in the country, like you do, I tell yer, is all tommy-rot.
Its town makes a man of one, Charlie, as me and the nobs 'as found out,
And a snide 'un like you should be fly to it. Carn't fancy wot you're about.
Old Ruskin, I know, sez quite t'other, but then he is clean off his chump.
Where's the life in long lanes, with no gas-lamps? Their smell always give me the 'ump.
Come hout on it, mate, it'll spile yer. It's May, and the season's begun,
All the toffs is in town—ah! you trust 'em! they know where to drop on the fun.
Don't ketch them a-Maying, my pippin, like bloomin' old Jacks-in-the-Green,
A-sloppin' about in damp medders, with never a pub to be seen.
No fear! We've primroses in tons—thanks to Beakey—for them as can pay.