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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892 By: Various |
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VOL. 102 MAY 7, 1892 'ARRY ON WHEELS. [Illustration: Our 'Arry Laureate.] DEAR CHARLIE, Spring's on us at last, and a proper old April
we've 'ad,
Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday makers
feel mad.
Rum cove that old Clerk o' the Weather; seems somehow to take a
delight
In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer
spite. When we're fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or
fact'ry, or shop,
The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the
'op;
But when Easter or Whitsuntide's 'andy, and outings all round is
in train,
It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain. It's a orkud old universe, CHARLIE, most things go as crooked as Z.
Feelosophers may think it out, 'ARRY ain't got the 'eart, or the
'ead;
But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust laws, and
no kid.
If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth and
no quid! 'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing on wheels;
For I've took to the bicycle, yus, and can show a good many my
'eels.
You should see me lam into it, CHARLIE, along a smooth bit of
straight road,
And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheeling, I'm
blowed. Larks fust and larks larst is my motter. Old RICHARDSON's rumbo
is rot.
Preachy preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to a sanit'ry
pot;
But it isn't mere hexercise, CHARLIE, nor yet pooty scenery, and
that,
As'll put 'ARRY's legs on the pelt. No, yours truly is not sech a
flat. Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good 'ealth,
I've no doubt
That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere turning
about,
Upon planks 'stead o' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling as
wheeling's 'ard work,
And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always did
shirk. I ain't one o' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest 'ollered
out, and a 'ump,
Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go slap off
their chump.
You don't ketch me straining my 'eart till it cracks for a big
silver mug.
No; 'ARRY takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel cosy and snug. Wy, I knowed a long lathy limbed josser as felt up to champion form.
And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the Wheel World
by storm,
Went off like candle snuff, CHARLIE, while stoopin' to lace up 'is
boot.
Let them go for that game as are mind to, here's one as it
certn'y won't soot. But there's fun in it, CHARLIE, worked proper, you'd 'ardly
emagine 'ow much,
If you ain't done a rush six a breast, and skyfoozled some
dawdling old Dutch.
Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the doddering
old sort
As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it! that makes
a'rf the sport! 'Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,
Ah! it give me what for in my jints, and no end of a thundering
thust;
I felt jest like a snake with skyattica doubling about on the loose,
As 'elpless as 'ot calf's foot jelly, old man, and about as much
use. Now I don't like to look like a juggins, it's wot I carn't
stand, s'elp my bob;
But you know I ain't heasy choked off, dear old pal, when I'm fair
on the job.
So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall
trees,
Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts. Oh, I tell yer 'twas "go as
yer please." They call it a "Park," and it's pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,
Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it's welting with
rain;
Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges
live there,
And they didn't like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did I
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