In trials and tantrums to cabbies and gents, you can make 'im archbishop without consecration!
I'm nuts upon good old November—sometimes—though, when fog isn't on, and there ain't too much drizzle,
A spin through the sububs about ten o'clock, on the fifth, when the place seems aflare and a fizzle
With bonfires and fireworks, and up through the tree-tops the rockets go whizzing and busting like winking;
Wy, somehow it makes me feel just like a boy again; not a bad feeling, at least to my thinking.
Some years agone, on a damp, misty Guy-night, a jolly-faced gent, with one eye, and a bundle
As looked like a parcel o' props, came towards me a-trottin' as brisk as 'is short legs could trundle;
"Take me to Tooting?" 'e garsps. "At a price, Sir," I arnsers 'im sharp. "Right!" sez 'e; "put a name to it!"
"Fog's thickenin' up, Sir," I sez. "If you're game to say—so-much—I'm on." And the old gent was game to it.
Fust we'd a liquor, and then 'e sez "Fireworks!" a-bossing 'is bundle with one heye a-glitter.