[In which GINGER JIMMY gives his views of Lazarus, Dives,
Dirt, Mother Church, Slum-Freeholders and "Freedom of
Contract."]
"The Golgotha of Slumland!" That's a phrase as I am told
Is made use of by a party,--wich that party must be bold,--
In the name of Mister LAZARUS, a good Saint Pancrage gent,
Wot has writ a book on Slumland, and its Landlords, and its Rent.[1]
He's a Member of the "Westry 'Ealth Committee," so it seems,
And the story wot he tells will sound, _to some_, like 'orrid
dreams.
But, lor bless yer! _we_ knows better, and if sech 'cute coves as
'im
Want to ferret hout the _facks_, they might apply to GINGER JIM.
There's the mischief in these matters; them as knows won't always
tell.
Wy, if you want to spot a "screw," or track up a bad smell,
You've got to be a foxer, for whilst slums makes topping rent,
There will always be lots 'anging round to _put yer off the scent_!
I can tell yer arf the right 'uns even ain't quite in the know,
And there's lots o' little fakes to make 'em boggle, or go slow.
Werry plorserble their statements, and they puts 'em nice and plain,
And a crockidile _can_ drop 'em when 'e once turns on the main.
All the tenants' faults; they likes it, dirt, and scrowging, and
damp walls!
They _git used to_ 'orrid odours! O the Landlord's tear-drop falls.
Werry often, when collecting of his rents, to see the 'oles
Where the parties as must pay 'em up _prefers_ to stick, pore souls!
No compulsion, not a mossel! Ah, my noble lords and gents
Who are up in arms for Libbaty--that is, of paying rents--
You've rum notions of Compulsion. NOCKY SPRIGGINS sez, sez 'e,
While you've got a chice of starving, or the workus, ain't ye
_free_!
Free? O vus, we're free all round like; there ain't ne'er a
bloomin' slave,
White or black, but wot is free enough--to pop into 'is grave;
Though if they ketch yer trying even _that_ game, and yer _fail_,
Yer next skool for teaching freedom ain't the workus, but the jail!
'Andcuffs ain't the sole "Compulsion," nor yet laws ain't, nor yet
whips;
There is sech things as 'unger, and yer starving kids' white lips,
And bizness ties, a hempty purse, bad 'ealth, and ne'er a crust;
Swells may swear these ain't Compulsion, but _we_ know as they
means _must_.
Ah! wot precious rum things _words_ is, 'ow they seems to fog the
wise!
If they'd only come and look at _things_, that is with their hown
heyes,
And not filantropic barnacles _or_ goldian giglamps--lor!
Wot a lob of grabs and gushers might shut up their blessed jor!
The nobs who're down on workmen, 'cos on "knobsticks" _they_ will
frown,
Has a 'arty love for Libbaty--when keepin' wages down.
Contrack's a sacred 'oly thing, freedom carnt 'ave _that_ broke,
But Free Contrack wot's _forced_ on yer--wy, o'course, that sounds
a joke.
If they knowed us and our sort, gents, they would know Free
Contrack's fudge,
When one side ain't got a copper, 'as been six weeks on the trudge,
Or 'as built his little bizness up in one pertikler spot,
And if the rent's raised on 'im must turn hout, and starve or rot!
Coarse words, my lords and ladies! Well, yer may as well be dumb,
As talk pooty on the questions wot concerns hus in the Slum.
There ain't nothink pooty in 'em, and I cannot 'elp but think
Some of our friends 'as spiled our case by piling on the pink.
Foxes 'ave 'oles, the Book sez; well, no doubt they feels content,
For they finds, or makes, their 'ouses, and don't 'ave to pay no
rent;
But _our_ 'oles--well, someone builds 'em for us, such, in course
is kind,
But it ain't a bad investment, as them Landlords seems to find.
The Marquiges and Mother Church pick lots of little plums,
And the wust on 'em don't seem to be their proputty in slums.
Oh, I'd like to take a Bishop on the trot around our court,
And then arsk 'ow the Church spends the coin collected from our
sort.
Wot's the use of pictering 'errors? Let 'im put 'is 'oly nose
To the pain of close hinspection; lot his venerable toes
Pick a pathway through our gutter, let his gaiters climb our stairs;
And when 'e kneels that evening, I should like to 'ear 'is prayers!
I'm afraid that in Rats' Rents he mightn't find a place to kneel
Without soiling of his small clothes. Yus, to live in dirt, I feel
Is a 'orrid degradation; but one thing I'd like to know,
Is it wus than living _on_ it? Let 'im answer; it's his go.
"All a blowing" ain't much paternised, not down our Court, it ain't.
Wich we aren't as sweet as iersons, not yet as fresh as paint!
For yer don't get spicy breezes in a den all dirt and dusk,
From a 'apenny bunch o' wallflower, or a penny plarnt o' musk.
Wot do _you_ think? Bless yer 'earts, gents, I wos down some
months ago
With a bout o' the rheumatics, and 'ad got so precious low
I wos sent by some good ladies, wot acrost me chanced to come--
Bless their kindness!--to a 'evvin called a Convalescent 'Ome.
Phew! Wen I come back to Rats' Rents, 'ow I sickened of its smells,
Arter all them trees and 'ayfields, and them laylocks and
blue-bells,
And sometimes I think--pertikler when I'm nabbed by them old pains--
Wot a proper world it might be if it weren't for dirt and drains.
Who's to blame for Dirt? Yer washups, praps it ain't for me to say,
But--I don't think there'd be much of it if 'twasn't made to _pay_!
_Who_ does it pay? The Renters or the Rented? I've no doubt
When you spot _who_ cops the Slum-swag--wy, yer won't be so fur out!
[Footnote 1: _Landlordism_, by HENRY LAZARUS.]
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