There isn't a hignerent mug, or a mealy-mouthed mutton-faced pump
Who 'as learned 'ow to garsp hout a He-haw! in regular la-di-dah style,
But'll look down on "'ARRY the haitchless," and wrinkle his snout in a smile.
Yah! Haitches ain't heverythink, CHARLIE, no, not by a jugfull they hain't.
And yer "H-heah! H-hold my H-h-horse!" sort o' sniffers would screw hout big D.'s from a saint.
What's the hodds, arter all? If you're fly to the true hend of Life, wich is larks,
You may pop in yer haitches permiskus, in spite of the prigs' rude remarks.
The old Roman geeser, CAT ULLUS, who wrote that de Arrio bosh,
Wos a poet, of course, and a classick, two things as to-day will not wash;
Bet yer boots Master ARRIUS 'ad 'im on toast, the old mug, every time,