She 'ooks onto him like a bat to a belfry, sir! What do you think?
A 'Appy New Year? Yus, it looks like it! Charlie, old chap, I've heard tell
Of parties called pessymists, writers as swear the whole world's a big sell;
No doubt they've bin jilted, or jockeyed by some such a juggins as Bill;
And without real jam—cash and kisses—this world is a bitterish pill.
Still, I wish you a 'Appy New Year, if you care for the kibosh, old chappie,
Though 'taint 'igh art cards full o' gush and green paint'll make you and me 'appy.
Wot we want is lucre and larks, love and lotion as much as you'll carry!
Give me them, and one slap at that Bill,—They're the new year gifts to suit.
'Arry.