I like easy ways and slang-patter, I'm Tory and patriot all round,—
As every true Englishman must be who isn't an ass or a hound,—
But your ill-spellin', aitch-droppin' howler, with "two quid a week"—as he brags—
Isn't me, but a Battersea bounder with big bulgy knees and loud bags.
I did do the boulevards once in striped knickers and straw, I admit;
And once in a Catholic church I will own I did laugh fit to split.
But then, foreign tastes are so funny, and foreign religions so rum;
And if they will play mumbo-jumbo, how can a smart Johnny keep mum?
It is all the dashed foreigners' fault. They don't relish our up-and-down style;
They smirk and they play monkey-tricks and then scowl if we happen to smile.
They hate us like poison, and swear 'tis because of our "swagger and bounce,"
But it's Bull's fightin' weight that they funk, and by gad, they know that to an ounce!
There! I've let off the steam, and feel better! We need "Coalition" all round,
We gents, against Cad-dom, and Rad-dom,—they don't differ much, I'll be bound—
We've got it in Parliament—rippin'!—and if the same scheme we can carry
In social arrangements, why then 'Arry won't be confounded with
Harry.
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.
