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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, September 24, 1892 By: Various |
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OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 103. September 24, 1892.
'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE. [Illustration] 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. I'm not nuts on baths took too reglar; but 'Arrygate baths ain't
'arf bad,
When you git a bit used to 'em, CHARLIE. I squirmed, though fust
off, dear old lad!
They so soused, and so slapped, and so squirted me. Messing a
feller about
Don't come nicer for calling it massage . But there, it's O.K.
I've no doubt... Continue reading book >>
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