But lor! these 'ere munchy-mouthed mashers—with aitches—as gives theirselves hairs,
Carn't grow any, not arter thirty, the bladder-o'-lardy-dar scares!
'Owsomever, that ain't to the pint, Charlie. Wot is a Gent? That's the nip!
Well, it's partly a matter of "snap"-like, and partly a matter of "snip."
If I've got the grit and the gumption, and know 'ow to tog like a toff,
I've got the true gent in my nyture, and them as ain't got it—they're hoff!
But "aitches" won't do it, my pippin! Yer grammar may be quite O K,
All yer parts o' speech proper as pie, and yer spellin' fust chop in its way,
But if you can't rattle and patter, and 'old up your end like a man,
All yer mincey-wince mealy-mouthed has-p'rates is nothink but slop and cold-scran.