No. IV.—OFF DUTY—HARMONY—"HANSOM UP!"
Cabby off dooty's a clubable man. So—perfeck O K—says some pen-driving party.
Why, certainly genelmen! Wot do you think? There is few things like 'orses to make fellows 'earty.
Your coachees, and carters, and costers, and such, not to name racing coves, are in general most chummy,
And if doing London on wheels every day didn't make Cabbies feel in one swim, 'twould be rummy.
A flick o' the lash or a crook o' the elber may be all we've time for when meetin' or passin',
But bless yer, we're all on the same job you see, and oarn't be too pertikler in rankin' an' classin'.
Dirty pertaters, of course, do abound, but we don't shove on side if a chap's a bit decent,
And consequent clubs are a bit in our line, likeways free-and-easies. I've joined one quite recent.
Sing? Well, they do say I've a pipe like a blackbird, but that's tommy-rot, in a manner o' speakin',
Wish I could touch my Jim Crow's mornin' flute o'er a mealy and turf with my tenorish squeaking.
Still, I'm in request when the 'armony's on, and I just do my level, along o' the others.
I tell you there's talent among us sometimes, though the chippers nickname us the Hullaboo Brothers.
One smart "little mash," from out Pimlico way, known as "Barney the Bard," or "B. B." or "The Buster,"
Can write 'is own songs. You should just 'ear 'im tip us "A Tanner a Mile," or "The Broom and the Duster."
Chevalier himself couldn't top 'im in patter. 'E's writ me a song—me an' 'im being pally—
It's called "Hansom Up!" an' the first night I give it—with thanks to B. B.!—'twos a regular rally.
It took 'em all suddent, and knocked 'em, I tell yer. "Now Jack," sez the Chairman (Old Bungo), hironic,
"That larst wos a gusher as made us feel sniffy; toon up sutthing lively, and give us a tonic!
Young Scrag o' Lamb's love-songs are like sweetened gin, Jack, they want a kerrective, a Scotch, or a Bitter."
"Right, Bungo!" sez I, "I will give yer dry fizz 'stead o' pep'ment," as set 'im an' Vice on the titter.
HANSOM UP!
Oh, lirripi-dumple-day! I was born out Barnsbury way,
An' I cut my heye-teeth early, you can bet,—
You can bet!
I 'ad 'ardly took to socks, when I mounted on the box,
And larnt to tyke it smilin', dry or wet,—
Dry or wet!
Me nyme is Bob Fitzgibbons. I've a light 'and on the ribbons,
And mates christened me the Piccadilly Pup,—
Dilly Pup.
With my smart snuff-coloured bowler, and my natty button-'oler,
I arnser to the cry of Hansom Up!—
Hansom Up!!