Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, September 24, 1892   By: Various

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.

September 24, 1892.

'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.

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DEAR CHARLIE, Rum mix this 'ere world is, yer never know wot 'll come next! Don't emagine I've sent yer a sermon, and treacle this out as my text; But really life's turn ups are twisters. You lay out for larks, 'ealth, and tin, But whenever you think it's "a moral," that crock, "Unexpected," romps in.

Who'd ha' thought of me jacking up suddent, and giving the Sawbones a turn? Who'd ha' pictered me "Taking the Waters"? Ah! CHARLIE, 'twos hodds on the Urn With Yours Truly, this time, I essure you. I fancied as Tot'nam Court Road Would he trying its 'and on my tombstone afore the green corn wos full growed.

Bad , CHARLIE? You bet! 'Twas screwmatics and liver, old Pill box declared. Knocked me slap orf my perch, fair 'eels uppards. I tell you I felt a bit scared, And it left me a yaller skinned skelinton, weak, and, wot's wus, stoney broke. If it hadn't a bin for my nunky, your pal might have jest done a croak.

Uncle NOBBS, a Cat's butcher at Clapton, who's bin in luck's way, and struck ile, Is dead nuts on Yours Truly. Old josser, and grumpy, but he 's made his pile. Saw me settin' about in the garden, jest like a old saffron gill'd ghost A waiting for cock crow to 'ook it, and hanxious to 'ear it a'most.

Sez he, "Wy, the boy is a bone bag! Wot's that? Converlescent? Oh, fudge! He's a slipping his cable, and drifting out sea wards, if I 'm any judge. I was ditto some twenty year back, BOB, and 'Arrygate fust set me up. Wot saved the old dog, brother ROBERT, may probably suit the young pup.

"Carn't afford it? O'course yer carn't, JENNY; but thanks be to 'orse flesh I can " Well, he tipped us a fifty quid crisp 'un and ROOSE sent me 'ere; he's my Man! Three weeks' "treatment"! Well, threes into fifty means cutting a bit of a dash; Good grub, nobby togs, local doctor, baths, waters, and everythink flash.

"'Appy 'ARRY!" sez you. But way oh, CHARLIE! 'Arrygate isn't all jam. Me jolly? Well, mate, if you arsk me, I carn't 'ardly say as I ham. To spread myself out with the toppers is proper, no doubt, bonny boy; But I wish it wos Brighton, or Margit, or somewheres a chap could enjoy .

Oh, them "Waters," old man!!! S'elp me never! yer don't kow wot nastyness is Till you've tried "Sulphur 'ot and strong," fasting. The Kissing Gin, taken a fizz, Isn't wus than ditch water and sherbet; but Sulphur!!! It's eased my game leg; But I go with my heart in my mouth, and I feel like a blooming bad hegg.

B r r r r! Beastliness isn't the word, CHARLIE. Language seems out of it, slap. When I took my fust twelve ounces 'ot, from a gal with a snowy white cap, And cheeks like a blush rose for bloominess well, I'm a gent, but, yah hah! I jest did a guy at the double, without even nodding ta ta!

Where the Primrose Path leads to, my pippin, I'm cocksure can't 'ave a wus smell. Like bad eggs, salt, and tenpenny nails biled in bilge water. Eugh! Old Pump Well? Wy then let well alone, is my motter, or leastways, it would be, I'm sure, But for BLACK local doctor, a stunner! who's got me in 'and for a cure.