'Ow are yer, old Turmuts? Gone mouldy, or moon-struck, or wot?
Sticking down in the country, like you do, I tell yer, is all
tommy-rot.
Its town makes a man of one, Charlie, as me and the nobs 'as found out,
And a snide 'un like you should be fly to it. Carn't fancy wot you're
about.
Old Ruskin, I know, sez quite t'other, but then _he_ is clean off his
chump.
Where's the _life_ in long lanes, with no gas-lamps? Their smell
always give me the 'ump.
Come hout on it, mate, it'll spile yer. It's May, and the season's
begun,
All the toffs is in town--ah! you trust 'em! _they_ know where
to dropon the fun.
Don't ketch _them_ a-Maying, my pippin, like bloomin' old
Jacks-in-the-Green,
A-sloppin' about in damp medders, with never a pub to be seen.
No fear! We've primroses in tons--thanks to Beakey--for them as
can pay.
And other larks as _is_ larks, mate, they know meet in London in May.
It is all very well, on a Sunday, for just arf a dozen or so
To take a chay-cart down to Epsom, and cut down the may as yer go.
I've 'ad 'igh old times on that lay, Charlie, gals, don't yer know,
and all that,
Returning at dusk with the beer on, and may branches all round yer 'at.
With plenty of tuppenny smokes and 'am san'wiches, Charlie, old man,
And a bit of good goods in pink musling, it ain't arf a bad sort
o' plan.
Concertina, in course, and tin whistle, to give 'em a rouser all round,
And "chorus," all over the shop, till the winders'll shake at
the sound.
That's "May, merry May," if yer like, mate, and does your's ancetrar
a treat.
But the rural's a dose as wants mixing, it won't do to swaller it neat;
That's wy the Haristos and 'Arry, and all as is fly to wot's wot,
Likes passing the season in London, in spite of yer poetry rot.
Country's all jolly fine in the autumn, with plenty of killing about--
Day's rabbitin's not a bad barney, and gull-potting's lummy, no doubt;
But green fields with nothink to slorter, no pubs, no theaytres,
no gas!--
No, no, it won't wash, and the muggins as tells yer it will is a hass.
But May in "the village," my biffin, the mighty metrolopus,--ah!
That's paradise, sir, and no kid, with a dash of the true lah-di-dah.
Covent Garden licks Eden, I reckon, at least it'll do _me_ A 1;
Button-'oler and Bond Street, old pal, that's yer fair top-row
sarmple for fun!
Wy, we git all the best of the country in London, with dollups
chucked in.
_Rush in herby!_--ascuse the Hitalian!--Ah, mate, ony wish I'd
the tin;
I'd take 'em a trot, and no flounders! It's 'ard, bloomin' 'ard,
my dear boy,
When form as is form ain't no fling, as a German ud say,
_fo der quoy._
_I_'d make Mister Ruskin sit up, and the rest of the 'owlers see
snakes,
With their rot about old Mother Nature, as _never_ don't make no
mistakes.
Yah! Nature's a fraud and a fizzle, that is if yer can't fake her
out
With the taste of a man about town, ony sort as knows wot he 's
about.
Well, London's all yum-yum jest now. Hexhibitions all hover the shop,
I tell yer it keeps one a-movin'. _I_'m on the perpetual 'op,
Like the prince. Aitch har aitch _is_ a stayer, a fair royal Rowell,
I say.
(I landed a quid on _that_ "Mix," but I carnt git the beggar to pay.)
"Inventories" open, you know. Rayther dry, but the _extrys_ O.K.
It's the extrys, I 'old, make up life, arf the pleasure and most o'
the pay.
Yus, princes and painters, philanterpists, premiers and patriots may
gush,
But wot ud become of their shows if it weren't for the larks and the
lush?
Lor bless yer, dear boy, picter galleries, balls, sandwich sworries
and all,--
It's fun and the fizz makes 'em go, not the picter, the speech or
the squall.
Keep yer eye on the buffet's my maxim, look out for the "jam" and
the laugh,
And you'll collar the pick o' the basket, the rest is all sordust
and chaff.
That's philosophy, Charlie, my pippin; the parsons and prigs may
demur,
But if you would foller _their_ tip, wy, you'll 'ave to go
thundering fur.
Ah! "May, merry May!" up in town, fills your snide 'un as full as
he'll carry
Of laughter and lotion. That's gospel to toffs and yours
scrumptiously,
'ARRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A JUDGE OF CHARACTER.
_Sympathetic Friend (to sweeper)._ "What's the use o' arstin' _'im_,
Bill? _'E_ don't give away nothink less than a Gover'ment appointment,
_'e_ don't!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A BI-METALLISTIC DISCUSSION
_Jim._ "What's this 'ere 'Bi-metallism,' Bill?"
_Bill (of superior intelligence)._ "Well, yer see, Jim, it 's heither a
licens'd wittlers' or a teetotal dodge. The wages'll be paid in silver,
and no more coppers. So you can't get no arf-pint nor hanythink under a
sixpence or a thrip'ny. Then you heither leaves it alone, and takes to
water like a duck, or you runs up a score."
_Jim._ "Ah! But if there ain't no more coppers, 'ow about the 'buses and
the hunderground rileway?"
_Bill (profoundly)._ "Ah!"
[_Left sitting._
]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Cockney Macbeth (a trifle "fluffy" in his words) bellows
out:_ "'Ang out our banners on the houtward walls! The cry is--'Let 'em
_all_ come!'"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Hedwin._ "Hangeleener! Won't yer 'ear me? Wot 'ud yer sy
if I told yer as I'd 'took the shillin'?"
_Hangelina._ "Sy? Why--'halves'!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Man Cleaning the Horse._ "Naa then lazy, w'y don't yer
do some work?"
_New Hand (loafing)._ "I'm agoin' to."
_M. C. H._ "Wot are yer goin' ter do?"
_N. H._ "'Elp you."
_M. C. H._ "Come alorng, then."
_N. H._ "All rite. You go orn, I'm agoin' ter do the 'issing."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "BACK TO THE LAND."
_Old Farmer Worsell (who is experimenting with unemployed from London)._
"Now then, young feller, 'ow long are you goin' to be with that 'ere
milk?"
_Young Feller._ "I caunt 'elp it, guv'nor. I bin watchin' 'er arf an
hour, and she ain't laid any yit."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "'Ere, just 'old my broom a minute. I'm just goin' up the
street. If any of my regular customers comes, just arst 'em to wait a
bit!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ART IN WHITECHAPEL.
"Well, that's what I calls a himpossible persition to get yerself
into!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Loafer (looking at a hundred pound dressing-bag)._ "I
wonder wot sort of a bloke it is as wants a bag of tools like that to
doss 'isself up with?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "Comin' up to 'Yde Park to 'ave a bave, 'Arry?"
"Yers--an' 'ave all me cloves run orf wiv. Not if _I_ know it!"]
* * * * *
THE COCKNEY'S ADDRESS TO THE SEA.--"With all thy faults I love thee
_still_."
* * * * *