Here goes—but, oh, crikey! vhere am I to go to find a drop o' vater un-froze?
Vell, that's the cuttingest thing of all—to think as a man can't put a end to his woes
In his own native element, as he vos bred and born to, and lived in, man and b'y,
Uppards of thirty-six year come next Midsummer (vich it never vill come again to I).
Vell, I've tuck my leave of the river, and my poor miserable little funny, so pretty and red:
I shall never shoot Lunnun Bridge no more, so I'll go and shoot myself instead.
A CHARITY BALL—Dancing for the Million.
THE GOOD OLD TIMES.
Let others sing of times to come—