Mr. Punch's Cockney Humour by J. A. Hammerton (the best books to read .TXT) 📖
- Author: J. A. Hammerton
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And a snide 'un like you should be fly to it. Carn't fancy wot you're about.
Old Ruskin, I know, sez quite t'other, but then he is clean off his chump.
Where's the life in long lanes, with no gas-lamps? Their smell always give me the 'ump.
Come hout on it, mate, it'll spile yer. It's May, and the season's begun,
All the toffs is in town—ah! you trust 'em! they know where to drop on the fun.
Don't ketch them a-Maying, my pippin, like bloomin' old Jacks-in-the-Green,
A-sloppin' about in damp medders, with never a pub to be seen.
No fear! We've primroses in tons—thanks to Beakey—for them as can pay.
And other larks as is larks, mate, they know meet in London in May.[Pg 120]
It is all very well, on a Sunday, for just arf a dozen or so
To take a chay-cart down to Epsom, and cut down the may as yer go.
I've 'ad 'igh old times on that lay, Charlie, gals, don't yer know, and all that,
Returning at dusk with the beer on, and may branches all round yer 'at.
With plenty of tuppenny smokes and 'am san'wiches, Charlie, old man,
And a bit of good goods in pink musling, it ain't arf a bad sort o' plan.
Concertina, in course, and tin whistle, to give 'em a rouser all round,
And "chorus," all over the shop, till the winders 'll shake at the sound.
That's "May, merry May," if yer like, mate, and does your's ancetrar a treat.
But the rural's a dose as wants mixing, it won't do to swaller it neat;
That's wy the Haristos and 'Arry, and all as is fly to wot's wot,
Likes passing the season in London, in spite of yer poetry rot.
Country's all jolly fine in the autumn, with plenty of killing about—
Day's rabbitin's not a bad barney, and gull-potting's lummy, no doubt;
But green fields with nothink to slorter, no pubs, no theaytres, no gas!—
No, no, it won't wash, and the muggins as tells yer it will is a hass.[Pg 122]
But May in "the village," my biffin, the mighty metrolopus,—ah!
That's paradise, sir, and no kid, with a dash of the true lah-di-dah.
Covent Garden licks Eden, I reckon, at least it'll do me A 1;
Button-'oler and Bond Street, old pal, that's yer fair top-row sarmple for fun!
Wy, we git all the best of the country in London, with dollups chucked in.
Rush in herby!—ascuse the Hitalian!—Ah, mate, ony wish I'd the tin;
I'd take 'em a trot, and no flounders! It's 'ard, bloomin' 'ard, my dear boy,
When form as is form ain't no fling, as a German ud say, fo der quoy.
I'd make Mister Ruskin sit up, and the rest of the 'owlers see snakes,
With their rot about old Mother Nature, as never don't make no mistakes.
Yah! Nature's a fraud and a fizzle, that is if yer can't fake her out
With the taste of a man about town, ony sort as knows wot he 's about.
Well, London's all yum-yum jest now. Hexhibitions all hover the shop,
I tell yer it keeps one a-movin'. I'm on the perpetual 'op,
Like the prince. Aitch har aitch is a stayer, a fair royal Rowell, I say.
(I landed a quid on that "Mix," but I carnt git the beggar to pay.)[Pg 124]
"Inventories" open, you know. Rayther dry, but the extrys O.K.
It's the extrys, I 'old, make up life, arf the pleasure and most o' the pay.
Yus, princes and painters, philanterpists, premiers and patriots may gush,
But wot ud become of their shows if it weren't for the larks and the lush?
Lor bless yer, dear boy, picter galleries, balls, sandwich sworries and all,—
It's fun and the fizz makes 'em go, not the picter, the speech or the squall.
Keep yer eye on the buffet's my maxim, look out for the "jam" and the laugh,
And you'll collar the pick o' the basket, the rest is all sordust and chaff.
That's philosophy, Charlie, my pippin; the parsons and prigs may demur,
But if you would foller their tip, wy, you'll 'ave to go thundering fur.
Ah! "May, merry May!" up in town, fills your snide 'un as full as he'll carry
Of laughter and lotion. That's gospel to toffs and yours scrumptiously,
'Arry.
[Pg 119]
A Judge of Character.
Sympathetic Friend (to sweeper). "What's the use o' arstin' 'im, Bill? 'E don't give away nothink less than a Gover'ment appointment, 'e don't!!"
[Pg 121]
A BI-METALLISTIC DISCUSSION
Jim. "What's this 'ere 'Bi-metallism,' Bill?"
Bill (of superior intelligence). "Well, yer see, Jim, it 's heither a licens'd wittlers' or a teetotal dodge. The wages 'll be paid in silver, and no more coppers. So you can't get no arf-pint nor hanythink under a sixpence or a thrip'ny. Then you heither leaves it alone, and takes to water like a duck, or you runs up a score."
Jim. "Ah! But if there ain't no more coppers, 'ow about the 'buses and the hunderground rileway?"
Bill (profoundly). "Ah!"
[Left sitting.
[Pg 123]
Cockney Macbeth (a trifle "fluffy" in his words) bellows out: "'Ang out our banners on the houtward walls! The cry is—'Let 'em all come!'"
[Pg 125]
Hedwin. "Hangeleener! Won't yer 'ear me? Wot 'ud yer sy if I told yer as I'd 'took the shillin'?"
Hangelina. "Sy? Why—'halves'!"
[Pg 126]
Man Cleaning the Horse. "Naa then lazy, w'y don't yer do some work?"
New Hand (loafing). "I'm agoin' to."
M. C. H. "Wot are yer goin' ter do?"
N. H. "'Elp you."
M. C. H. "Come alorng, then."
N. H. "All rite. You go orn, I'm agoin' ter do the 'issing."
[Pg 127]
"Back to the Land."
Old Farmer Worsell (who is experimenting with unemployed from London). "Now then, young feller, 'ow long are you goin' to be with that 'ere milk?"
Young Feller. "I caunt 'elp it, guv'nor. I bin watchin' 'er arf an hour, and she ain't laid any yit".
[Pg 128]
"'Ere, just 'old my broom a minute. I'm just goin' up the street. If any of my regular customers comes, just arst 'em to wait a bit!"
[Pg 129]
Art in Whitechapel.
"Well, that's what I calls a himpossible persition to get yerself into!"
[Pg 130]
Loafer (looking at a hundred pound dressing-bag). "I wonder wot sort of a bloke it is as wants a bag of tools like that to doss 'isself up with?"
[Pg 131]
"Comin' up to 'Yde Park to 'ave a bave, 'Arry?"
"Yers—an' 'ave all me cloves run orf wiv. Not if I know it!"
[Pg 132]
The Cockney's Address to the Sea.—"With all thy faults I love thee still."
A COSTERMONGER'S CANT
Bill Coster said, "See them two fish?
Them there's both females, mister;
A pilchard she in this here dish:
That 'ere's her errin' sister."
For the Use of Schools.—(By a Cockney). Why should not Dr. Watts' poems be read by youth?
Because they contain Hymn-morality.
A LINE FROM BROWNING
(For hairdressers who recommend a wonderful "Restorative," and are careless of the aspirate.)
"An everlasting wash of air."
A Cockney Con.—When may a man really be supposed to be hungry?
When he goes to Nor-(gnaw)wood for his dinner.
[Pg 133]
So Very Considerate.
Stout Coster. "Where are ye goin' to, Bill?"
Bill. "Inter the country for a nice drive, bein' Bank 'Olidy."
Stout Coster. "Same 'ere. I sy! don't yer think we might swop misseses just for a few hours? It would be so much kinder to the hanimile!"
[Pg 134]
'Arry (whose "Old Dutch" has been shopping, and has kept him waiting a considerable time). "Wot d'yer mean, keepin' me standin' abaat 'ere like a bloomin' fool?"
'Arriet. "I can't 'elp the way yer stand, 'Arry."
[Pg 135]
Very Dry Weather.
"'Ooray, Bill! 'Ere's luck! I gorr' 'nother tanner! Leshgobackag'in!"
[Pg 136]
'EARD ON 'AMPSTEAD 'EATH
——"And talk of our bein' be'ind the French in general edication, why all I can say is as it's the commonest thing in Paree, for instance (over fust-class restorongs, too, mind yer), to see 'dinner' spelt with only one 'N'!"
[Pg 137]
Diagnosis.
"I can tell you what you're suffering from, my good fellow! You're suffering from acne!"
"'Ackney? Why, that's just what t'other medical gent he told me! I only wish I'd never been near the place!"
[Pg 138]
THE CAD'S CALENDARJanuary! Tailor's bill comes in.
Blow that blooming snip! I'm short o' tin.
Werry much enjoyed my Autumn caper,
But three quid fifteen do look queer paper.
Want another new rig out, wuss luck,
Gurl at Boodle's bar seems awful struck,
Like to take her to the pantermime;
That and oysters after would be prime.
Fan's a screamer; this top coat would blue it,
Yaller at the seams, black ink won't do it.
Wonder if old snip would spring another?
Boots, too, rayther seedy; beastly bother!
Lots o' larks that empty pockets "queer."
Can't do much on fifty quid a year.
Febrywary! High old time for sprees!
Now's yer chance the gals to please or tease,
Dowds to guy and pooty ones to wheedle,
And to give all rival chaps the needle.
Crab your enemies,—I've got a many,
You can pot 'em proper for a penny.
My! Them walentines do 'it 'em 'ot.
Fust-rate fun; I always buy a lot.
Prigs complain they're spiteful,
Lor' wot stuff!
I can't ever get 'em strong enough.
Safe too; no one twigs your little spree,
If you do it on the strict Q. T.[Pg 140]
If you're spoons, a flowery one's your plan.
Mem: I sent a proper one to Fan.
March! I'm nuts upon a windy day,
Gurls do git in such a awful way.
Petticoats yer know, and pooty feet;
Hair all flying—tell you it's a treat.
Pancake day. Don't like 'em—flabby, tough,
Rayther do a pennorth o' plum-duff.
Seediness shows up as Spring advances,
Ah! the gurls do lead us pretty dances.
Days a-lengthening.
Think I spotted Fan
Casting sheep's eyes at another man.
Quarter-day, too, no more chance of tick.
Fancy I shall 'ave to cut my stick.
Got the doldrums dreadful, that is clear.
Two d. left—must go and do a beer.
April! All Fools' Day's a proper time.
Cop old gurls and guy old buffers prime.
Scissors! don't they goggle and look blue
When you land them with a regular "do"?
Lor! the world would not be worth a mivvey
If there warn't no fools to cheek and chivy.
Then comes Easter. Got some coin in 'and,
Trot a bonnet out and do the grand.
Fan all flounce and flower; fellows mad
Heye us henvious; nuts to me, my lad.[Pg 142]
'Ampstead! 'Ampton! Which is it to be?
Fan—no flat—prefers the
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