I'll "slang" him for glasses all round, him whose patter fust fails 'im to pay.
Then he sez, "'Arry's always a Londoner." Shows 'Arry ain't no bad judge.
"Wot the crockerdile is to the Nile 'Arry is to the Thames." Well, that's fudge.
That's a ink-slinger's try-on at patter. Might jest as well call me a moke.
Try another, young man; this is kibosh purtending to pass for a joke.
Wen he sez my god's "go,"—well he's 'it it. Great Scott! wot is life without "go"?
But "loud, slangy, vulgar"? No, 'ang it, young man, this is—well, there, it's low.
Me vulgar! a Primroser, Charlie, a true "Anti-Radical" pot!
No, excuse me, St. J., I admire you; but this is all dashed tommy-rot.
Stale, too, orful stale, my young josser. It's wot all the soap-crawlers say,