Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, September 24, 1892

Excerpt

'ARRY AT 'ARRYGATE.

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....