An you'll find that in potting the puntist they're 'Arries right down to the ground.
All our chicest stock-jokes and pet patter they mops up, like mugs as they are,
For they might cut their own chaff, eh, Charlie? not borrow it all from the bar.
But I've seen little toffs in white weskits a slinging our lingo to rights,
About colds, and cock-salmons, and shop 'uns; it's one of the rummiest sights.
Of course they all trot out Sam Johnson; you know the fine crusted old wheeze.
I chucked it one day at a cove as lay stretched at the foot of some trees.
"Fool at one end and worm at the other"? sez he. "Ah! that's neat, and so new,
And as you seem to be worm and fool, one may say 'extremes meet,' Sir, in you."
'Owsomever I've 'ad a day's 'ooking at last, and it wasn't arf bad.