But SMITH's a slug, 'ARCOURT's a hum, and LABBY makes a chap go squirmish.
Dull as ditchwater the whole thing. One longs e'en for a Hirish skirmish;
But PARNELL's _fo par_, and his spite, 'ave knocked the sparkle out
of PADDY.
No; Parlyment's a played-out fraud, flabby and footy, flat and faddy.
The Season's similar. Season? Bah? By sech a name it ain't worth
calling.
Shoulders like these and carves like those was not _quite_ made for
pantry-sprawling;
But wot's the use? Trot myself hout for 'Ebrews, or some tuppenny
kernel?
No, not for JEAMES, if he is quite aweer of it! It's just infernal,
The Vulgar Mix that calls itself Society. All shoddy slyness,
And moneybags; a "blend" as might kontamernate a Ryal 'Igness,
Or infry-dig a Hemperor. It won't nick JEAMES though, not percisely;
Better to flop in solitude than to demean one's self unwisely.
Won't ketch _me_ selling myself off. I must confess my 'art it 'arrers
To see the Strorberry-Leaves go cheap--like strorberries on low coster's
barrers!
Tuppence a pound! Yes, that's the cry. It's _cheapness_, that Rad fad,
that's done it.
Prime fruit _ought_ to be scarce and dear, picked careful, and _kept in
the punnet_.
The same with _all_ chice things I 'old, whether 'tis footmen's carves
or peerages;
But fools forget that good old rule in this yer queerest of all queer
ages.
Trade bad, things in the City tight, no Court worth mentioning, queer
scandals,
Socierty inwaded by a lot of jumped-up Goths and Wandals;