'ARRY ON THE 'OLIDAY SEASON.
Dear CHARLIE,—'Ow are yer, my pippin? 'Ere's 'oliday season come round,
And I'm off on the galoot somewheres, and that pooty soon, you be bound;
But afore I make tracks for dear Parry, or slope for the Scheldt or the Rhine,
My 'art turns to turmuts and you, and I feel I must drop yer a line.
You gave me a invite this season, I know, my dear boy. Well, yer see
It's this way. The green tooral-looral's all right, but it 'ardly suits Me!
When you're well in the swim, my dear CHARLIE, along o' the reglar eleet,
You must do as they do, for a swell, like a Bobby, must stick to his beat.