But who'll give us change for 'em, Charlie? Ah! that's where we're left in the dark.
The Reform Bill won't do it, my pippin, on that you may lay your last dollar.
The fact is this 'Appy New Year fake is 'oller, mate, hutterly 'oller.
'Twon't fly—like the Christmas card hangels, it doesn't fit into the facks;
All it does is to spread tommy-rot, and to break all the postmen's poor backs.
You'll be thinking I've got the blue-mouldies, old man, and you won't be fur hout.
Funds low with yours truly, my bloater, no chances of getting about.
Larks, any amount of 'em, going, advertisements gassing like fun,
But 'Arry, for once in the way, 's a stone-broker and not in the run.
It's cutting, that's wot it is, cutting. I'm so used to leading the field,