Excerpt
'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE. (Second Letter.)
DEAR CHARLIE,—The post-mark, no doubt, will surprise you. I'm still at the "Crown,"
Though I said in my last—wot wos true—I was jest on the mizzle for town.
'Ad a letter from nunky, old man, with another small cheque. Good old nunk!
So I'm in for a fortnit' more sulphur and slosh, afore doing a bunk.
Ah! I've worked it, my pippin, I've worked it; gone in for hexcursions all round,
To Knaresborough, Bolton, and Fountains. You know, dear old pal, I'll be bound,
As hantiquities isn't my 'obby, and ruins don't fetch me, not much!
I can't see their "beauty," no more than the charms of some dowdy old Dutch.
A Castle, all chunnicks of stone, or a Habbey, much out of repair,
A skelinton Banquetting 'All, and a bit of a broken-down stair,
May appear most perticular "precious" to them as the picteresk cops;
But give me the sububs and stucco, smart villas, and spick-and-span shops.
"Up to date" is our siney quay non in these days. Fang der sickle, yer know.
Wich is French for the same, I persoom, and them phrases is now all the go.
Find 'em sprinkled all over the papers; in politics, fashion, or art,
If you carnt turn 'em slick round yer tongue, you ain't modern, or knowing, or smart.
Still a houting to Bolton ain't bad when the charry-bang's well loaded up
With swell seven-and-sixpence-a-headers. I felt like a tarrier-pup
On the scoop arter six weeks of kennel and drench in the 'ands of a vet;
I'd got free of the brimstoney flaviour and went it accordin', you bet!
'Ad a day at a village called Birstwith. The most tooralooralest scene,
'Oiler down among 'ills, dontcher know, ancient trees and a jolly big green.
Reglar old Rip-van-Winkleish spot, sech as CALDECOTT ought to ha' sketched.
Though I ain't noways nuts on the pastoral, even Yours Truly wos fetched.
Pooty sight and no error, old pal! 'Twos a grand "Aughticultural Show,"
So the "Progrum of Sports" told the public. Fruit, flowers, and live poultry, yer know.
Big markee and a range of old 'en-coops, sports, niggers, a smart local band,
Cottage gardemn', cheese, roosters, and races! Rum mix, but I gave it a 'and.
I do like to hencourage the joskins. One thing though, wos fiddle-de-dee,
They 'ad a "Refreshment Tent," CHARLIE. 'Oh my! Ginger-ale and weak tea!
Nothink stronger, old pal, s'elp me bob! Fancy me flopping down on a form
A-munching plum-putty, and lapping Bohea as wos not even warm!
This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and bands on the "Stray"
(Big lumpy old field in a 'ole, wich if properly managed might pay.)
Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black,
With a orful tremoler, my pippin!—yus, these are the pick of the pack.
Bit sick of "Ta-ra-ra" and "Knocked 'em;" "Carissimar" gives me the 'ump,
For I 'ear it some six times per morning; and then there's a footy old pump
Blows staggery toons on a post-'orn for full arf a-hour each day,
To muster the mugs for a coach-drive. My heye and a bandbox, it's gay!
At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate lot,
For even the Spa's a bit samesome for six times a week when it's 'ot;
Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts, and such;
Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny touch....