But do keep on yer 'air, dear old pal; I am still right end uppards, yer see.
You are needled along of some parties,—er course you ain't fly to their names,—
As has bin himitating Yours Truly. Way-oh! It's the oldest o' games,
Himitation is, CHARLIE. It makes one think DARWIN was right, anyhow,
And that most on us did come from monkeys, which some ain't so fur from 'em now.
You start a smart game, or a paying one—something as knocks 'em, dear boy,
No matter, mate, whether it's mustard, or rhymes, or a sixpenny toy;
They'll be arter you, nick over nozzle, the smuggers of notions and nips,
For the mugs is as 'ungry for wrinkles as broken-down bookies for tips.
Look at DICKENS, dear boy, and Lord TENNYSON—ain't they bin copied all round?