Wy, I'm told some as liked ALFRED's verses at fust, is now sick of the sound;
All along o' the parrots, my pippin. Ah, that's jest the wust o' sech fakes!
People puke at the shams till they think the originals ain't no great shakes.
'Tain't fair, CHARLIE, not by a jugful, but anger's all fiddle-de-dee;
They may copy my style till all's blue, but they won't discombobulate me.
Names and metres is anyone's props; but of one thing they don't get the 'ang;
They ain't fly to good patter, old pal, they ain't copped the straight griffin on slang.
'Tisn't grammar and spellin' makes patter, nor yet snips and snaps of snide talk.
You may cut a moke out o' pitch-pine, mate, and paint it, but can't make it walk.
You may chuck a whole Slang Dixionary by chunks in a stodge-pot of chat,