When your Britisher travels, he travels, but likes to be Britisher still;
With his Times and his "tub" he is 'appy; without 'em he's apt to feel ill.
Wy, when I was last year in Parry, I went for a Bullyvard crawl
One night arter supper, when who should I spot but my pal BOBBY BALL.
He wos doin' the gay at a Caffy, was BOB, petty vair, and all that,
Togged up to the nines with his claw-hammer, cuff-shooters, gloves, and crush-hat.
"Wot cheer, BOBBY, old buster!" I bellered; and up from his paper he looks.
Ah! and didn't we 'ave a rare night on it, CHARLIE! We both know our books.
But wot do you think BOB was reading? The Times! I could twig it at once.
He might 'ave 'ung on to Gil Blars, or the Figgero,—BOB ain't a dunce—