"_You know I always hate long arguments;" i.e.,_ "Don't deprive me of
my pet diversion."
"_No; I don't exactly see what you mean;" i.e.,_ "_You_ don't; but the
admission on my part looks candid."
"_My dear fellow, ask_ anyone _who really knows anything;" i.e._ "You
appear to live among a half-educated set of local faddists."
* * * * *
'ARRY ON 'ARRISON AND THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH.
DEAR CHARLIE,--No Parry for me, mate, not this season leastways--wus
luck!
At the shop I'm employed in at present, the hands has all bloomin'
well struck.
It's hupset all our 'olidays, CHARLIE, and as to my chance of a
rise
Wot do _you_ think, old pal? I'm fair flummoxed, and singing, _Oh,
what a surprise!_
These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain't,
dear old boy.
They're all over the shop, like Miss ZÆO, wot street-kids seems so
to enjoy.
Mugs' game! They'll soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be
worried and welched,
And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought to
be squelched.
'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set
against Wealth
Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national
'ealth.
There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere
bellerers ban.
Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it,
old man?
Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of
St. Grouse,"
On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut
of the 'Ouse,
Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to
the Moors.
Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs
and the boors!
Yet this 'ARRISON he sets _his_ back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle
a gun,
I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion
of Fun.
"Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot _he_
says, sour old sap
Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise--eh,
old chap?
_Him_ sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather
and fur,
So long as yer never _kills_ nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives me
the spur.
Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things
to be shot?
"This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling
old wag.
From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag!
"Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no
luncheons, no game!
Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton
with shame.
No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE,
this round;
But give me my gun, and a chance, and I'll be in the swim, I'll
be bound.
I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with
'em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer _may_n't
be a dunce.
My rig out was a picter they told me--deer-stalker and knickers
O.K.--
"BRIGGS, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to
his lay;
But BRIGGS or no BRIGGS I shaped spiffin, in mustard-and-mud-colour
checks.
Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the
primest of pecks.
Talk of sandwiges, CHARLIE, oh scissors, I'd soon ha' cleaned out
Charing Cross,
With St. Pancrust and Ludgit chucked in; fairly hopened the eye of
the boss;
Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames
Street, bit warm
In his langwige occasional, CHARLIE, but 'arty and reglar good form.
Swells will pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis
Big Shoot,
And there _wos_ some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on the
good gay galoot,
But I fancy I got jest a morsel screwdnoodleous late in the day,
For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but 'twas
only his play.
Bagged a brace and a arf, I did, CHARLIE; not bad for a novice
like me.
Jest a bit blown about the fust two; wanted gathering up like,
yer see.
A bird do look best with his 'ed on, dear boy, as a matter of taste;
And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural 'aste.
Never arsked me no more, for some reason. But wot I would say is
this here,
'ARRY's bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark pooty
near,
And when 'ARRISON talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy and
strong,
About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, 'ARRISON'S wrong!
_He_ would rather shoot broken-down cab-horses,--so the mug tells
us--than birds.
Well, they're more in his line very likely; that means, in his own
chosen words,
He's more fit for a hammytoor knacker than for that great boast of
our land,
A true British Sportsman! Great Scott! It's a taste as I _carnt_
understand.
Fact is this here FRED is a Demmycrat, Positivist, and all that.
There's the nick o' the matter, the reason of all this un-English
wild chat.
He is down on the Aristos, CHARLIE, this 'ARRISON is. It's the Court
And the pick o' the Peerage Sport nobbles, and that's wy he sputters
at Sport.
All a part of the game, dear old pal, the dead-set at the noble and
rich.
"Smart people" are "Sports," mostly always, and 'ARRISON slates
them as sich.
'Ates killing of "beautiful creatures," and spiling "the Tummel
in spate"
With "drives," champagne luncheons, and gillies? _That_'s not wot
sich slab-dabbers 'ate.
It's "Privileged Classes," my pippin, they loathes. Yer can't own a
big Moor,
Or even rent one like my dry-salter friend, if yer 'umble and poor.
Don't 'ARRISON never _eat_ grouse? Ah, you bet, much as ever he'll
carry.
There's "poz" for a Posit'vist, mate, there's 'ARRISON kiboshed
by 'ARRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR YOTTING YORICK.