One would think the dropped aitch and apostrophe ought to have labelled that brand,
Which the Comics, in picture and patter, have scattered all over the land;
But surely some new Trades Mark Act must be wanted exceedingly bad
When Harry, the travellin' Briton, is jumbled with 'Arry the Cad.
Just glance at the cutting enclosed. Now I travel, in silks, as you know,
And Paris and Lyons to me are familiar as Bradford or Bow.
But a gent is a gent, though in trade, and abroad just as much as at home,
And the manners that pass in Pall Mall ought to do for Berlin or for Rome!
I'm sick, my dear fellow, of readin' about British Cads on the trip,
And the way that they rough-up the foreigners. Every French barber or snip,
With a back that's all hinges and angles, will read us a lesson on form,
And the penny-a-liners at home back him up, and we—bow to the storm!
It's rot, and there's no other word for it! I mean rebellin' for one.
All this talk about 'Arries Abroad, which the ink-slingers think such prime fun,
Is all unpatriotic knock-under, poor tame cosmopolitan cant.
And as much a true bill as the chat of that sour Mrs. Ormiston Chant.
If there's anythin' gives me the hump, it is hearin' Old England run down;
And your Rads, and your Cads, and your Cocktails, all haters of Class and the Crown,
Are eternally bastin' John Bull on his bullyin' airs and stiff back.
O it gives me the very go-nimble to hear their contemptible clack!
They charge us with bounce and bad manners, with trottin' around in queer togs,
With chaffin' the waiters at cafés, and treatin' the porters like dogs.
They say we raise shines in their churches, and mock their processions and priests;
In fact, if you'd only believe them you'd class us as bullies and beasts.
Now I say a Briton's a Briton wherever he happens to go.
He has got to be "taken as written," with freedom his briar to blow,
His flannels and bowler to sport, his opinions and tastes to express,
As he would in Hyde Park or the Strand, and he won't be contented with less.
He takes "Rule, Britannia" along with him, young Johnny Bull does, you bet;
And it's no use for Germans to grunt, and it's no use for Frenchmen to fret.
We've got to be free, my dear fellow,—no matter if welcome or not,—
And to slang us as "'Arries Abroad" for that freedom is all tommyrot.
That Johnny who writes about 'Arry—in Punch don'tcher know—is a Rad,
I can see it as plain as be blowed; and he labels the lot of us "Cad",
If we've patriot hearts and high spirits, talk slang, and are fond of a spree,
But his 'Arry's no class, and it's like his dashed cheek to confound him with me!
He's done heaps of mischief, that joker, along of his levellin' trick,
Of tarrin' the classes and masses, without any judgment or pick,
With one sweepin' smudge of his tar-brush. Cad! Cad! Cad!—all over the shop!—
I'm sure he's a bloomin' outsider, and wish Punch would put on the stop.