A-munching plum-putty, and lapping Bohea as wos not even warm!
This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and bands on the "Stray"
(Big lumpy old field in a 'ole, wich if properly managed might pay.)
Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black,
With a orful tremoler, my pippin!—yus, these are the pick of the pack.
Bit sick of "Ta-ra-ra" and "Knocked 'em;" "Carissimar" gives me the 'ump,
For I 'ear it some six times per morning; and then there's a footy old pump
Blows staggery toons on a post-'orn for full arf a-hour each day,
To muster the mugs for a coach-drive. My heye and a bandbox, it's gay!
At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate lot,