Mr. Punch's Cockney Humour by J. A. Hammerton (the best books to read .TXT) 📖
- Author: J. A. Hammerton
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Nobby togs, high jinks, and lots o' lotion,
That's the style to go it, I've a notion!
May! The month o' flowers. Spooney sell!
"Rum 'ot with," is wot I likes to smell.
Beats yer roses holler. A chice weed
Licks all flowers that ever run to seed.
Nobby button'oler very well
When one wants to do the 'eavy swell;
Otherwise don't care not one brass farden,
For the best ever blowed in Covent Garden.
Fan, though, likes 'em, cost a pretty pile,
Rayther stiff, a tanner for a smile.
Blued ten bob last time I took 'er out,
Left my silver ticker up the spout.
Women are sech sharks! If I don't drop 'er.
Guess that I shall come a hawful cropper!
June! A jolly month; sech stunning weather.
Fan and I have lots of outs together:
Rorty on the river, sech prime 'unts,
Foul the racers, run into the punts.
Prime to 'ear the anglers rave and cuss,
When in quiet "swims" we raise a muss.
Snack on someone's lawn upon the quiet.
Won't the owner raise a tidy riot
When he twigs our scraps and broken bottles?
Cheaper this than rustyrongs or hottles,[Pg 144]
Whitsuntide 'ud be a lot more gay
If it warn't so near to quarter-day.
Snip turns sour, pulls "county-courting" faces.
Must try and land a little on the races.
'Ot July! Just nicked a handy fiver
(Twenty-five to one on old "Screw-driver"!)
New rig-out. This mustard colour mixture
Suits me nobby. Fan appears a fixture.
Gurls like style, you know, and colour ketches 'em,
But good show of ochre,—that's what fetches 'em,
Wimbledon! I'm not a Wolunteer.
Discipline don't suit this child—no fear!
But we 'ave fine capers at the camp,
Proper, but for that confounded scamp:
Punched my 'ead because I guyed his shooting.
Fan I fancied rather 'ighfaluting;
Ogled the big beggar as he propped me.
Would 'a licked 'im if she 'adn't stopped me.
August! Time to think about my outing.
No dibs yet, though, so it's no use shouting.
Make the best of the Bank 'Oliday.
Fan "engaged"! Don't look too bloomin' gay,
Drop into the bar to do a beer,
Twig her talking to that Volunteer.
Sling my 'ook instanter sharp and short,
Took Jemimer down to 'Ampton Court.
Not 'arf bad, that gurl. Got rather screwed,
Little toff complained as I was rude.[Pg 146]
'It 'im in the wind, he went like death;
Weak, consumptive cove and short o' breath.
Licked 'im proper, dropped 'im like a shot,—
Only wish that Fan had seen that lot.
'Ere's September! 'Oliday at last!
Off to Margit—mean to go it fast.
Mustard-coloured togs still fresh as paint,
Like to know who's natty, if I ain't.
Got three quid; have cried a go with Fan,
Game to spend my money like a man.
But sticking tight to one gal ain't no fun—
Here's no end of prime 'uns on the run;
Carn't resist me somehow, togs and tile
All A 1—make even swell ones smile.
Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubt
I could cut no end of big pots out.
Call me cad? When money's in the game,
Cad and swell are pooty much the same.
Now October! Back again to collar,
Funds run low, reduced to last 'arf-dollar.
Snip on rampage, boots a getting thin,
'Ave to try the turf to raise some tin.
Evenings getting gloomy; high old games;
Music 'alls! Look up the taking names.
Proper swells them pros.! If I'd my choice,
There's my mark. Just wish I'd got a voice;
Cut the old den to-morrow, lots of cham.,
Cabs and diamonds,—ain't that real jam?[Pg 148]
Got the straight tip for the Siezerwitch,
If I honly land it, I'll be rich.
Guess next mornin' wouldn't find me sober—
Allays get the blues about October.
Dull November! Didn't land that lot.
Fear my father's son is going to pot.
Fan jest passed me, turned away 'er eyes,
Guess she ranked me with the other guys,
Nobby larks upon the ninth, my joker;
But it queers a chap to want the ochre.
Nothing like a crowd for regular sprees,
Ain't it fine to do a rush, and squeeze?
Twig the women fainting! Oh, it's proper!
Bonnet buffers when the blooming copper
Can't get near yer nohow. Then the fogs!
Rare old time for regular jolly dogs.
If a chap's a genuine 'ot member,
He can keep the game up in November!
Dun December! Dismal, dingy, dirty.
Still short commons—makes a chap feel shirty.
Snip rampageous, drops a regular summons.
Fan gets married; ah! them gurls is rum 'uns!
After all the coin I squandered on 'er!
Want it now. A 'eap too bad, 'pon honour,
Snow! Ah, that's yer sort, though, and no error.
Treat to twig the women scud in terror.
Hot 'un in the eye for that old feller;
Cold 'un down 'is neck, bust his umbreller.[Pg 150]
Ha! ha! Then Christmas,—'ave a jolly feast!
The boss will drop a tip,—hope so, at least.
If I don't land some tin, my look-out's queer.
Well, let's drink, boys—"Better luck next year!"
[Pg 139]
Studies in Animal Life.
The chick-a-leary cochin.
[Pg 141]
Swell (who won't be done). "H 'yars my kyard if you'd—ah—like to summon me."
Cabby (who has pulled up and heard the dispute). "Don't you take it, Bill. It's his ticket o' leave!"
[Pg 143]
A Labour of Love!
Benevolent Lady (who has with infinite trouble organised a country excursion for some over-worked London dressmakers). "Then mind you're at the station at nine to-morrow, Eliza. I do hope it won't rain!"
"Rine, miss! I 'owp not, to be sure! The country's bad enough when it's foine, yn't it, miss?"
[Pg 145]
ON EPSOM DOWNS
"Get onto 'is neck, like me, Halfred, an' they'll take us for jockeys!"
[Pg 147]
Little Tompkins. "That fellow Brown tried to stuff me up with some of his travellers' tales the other day. Talked about his trip to Italy, and the waving fields of macaroni, but he didn't catch me, you know. They don't wave!"
[Pg 149]
Guile.
Old Lady. "You know the 'Royal Oak'? Well, you turn to the right, past the 'Jolly Gardener,' till you come to the 'Red Lion'——" Artful Cabby. "O, don't tell me the 'ouses, mum! Name some o' the churches, and then I shall know where I am!!"
[Asks, and gets, an exorbitant fare without a murmur.
RUS IN URBE (A Cockney Rhapsody)As I stroll through Piccadilly,
Scent of blossoms borne from Scilly
Greet me. Jonquil, rose, and lily,
Violet and daffydowndilly.
Oh, the feeling sweet and thrilly
That these blossoms flounced and frilly
From soft plains and headlands hilly
Bring my breast in Piccadilly!
It subdues me, willy nilly,
Though such sentiment seems silly,
And a bunch, dear, buys your Willy,
To dispatch, by post, to Milly,
Dwelling, far from Piccadilly,
In moist lowlands, rushed and rilly,
Blossomy as Penzance or Scilly.
Sweets to the sweet! "Poor Silly-Billy!"
You may say in accents trilly.
When the postman in the stilly
Eve, from distant Piccadilly,
Bears this box of rose and lily,
Violet and daffodilly,[Pg 152]
To the rural maiden, Milly,
From her urban lover,
Willy.
P.S.—
Dry as toke and skilly,
Is this arid Piccadilly,
Notwithstanding rose and lily,
All the beauteous blooms of Scilly,
Reft of that flower of flowers—Milly.
So, at least, thinks
"Silly Billy."
A Cockney's Exclamation upon seeing the celebrated Heidelberg Ton.—
"Well, it is (s)ton-ning!"
[Pg 151]
NATURAL HISTORY NOTES
Country Cousin. "Lor, Bill, ain't that a horstrich?"
Bill. "Horstrich? 'Corse not. That 'ere's a mongoose!"
SHAKESPEARE ON BLACKHEATHI saw young 'Arry with his billycock on,
Checked trousers on his thighs, with knob stick armed,
Climb from the ground like fat pig up a pole,
And flop with such sore toil into his saddle
As though a bran-bag dropped down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a slow "Jerusalem,"
And shock the world with clumsy assmanship.
'Arry's Latest Conundrum.—Why is a title-page like charity?—Becos it always begins a tome. (Begins at 'ome, don'tcher see!)
[Pg 153]
Cockney Friend. "Good 'evins! there's a pheasant!"
Country Friend. "Well, what of it?"
Cockney. "Why, it ain't the fust of Hoctober?"
[Pg 154]
Lady Visitor (at work-girls' club, giving some advice on manners). "And you know ladies never speak to gentlemen without an introduction."
'Liza. "We knows yer don't, miss, an' we offen pities yer!"
[Pg 155]
AN IDYLL
Hemma. "Oh, 'Arry, hain't this 'eavenly! You'll promise to give me 'am sandwiches always, when we're married, won't yer?"
'Arry. "'Corse I will!"
[Pg 156]
First Workman. "Why don't yer buy yer own matches, 'stead of always cadgin' mine?"
Second Workman. "You're uncommon mean with yer matches. I'll just take a few"—(helps himself to two-thirds)—"and be hinderpendent of yer!"
[Pg 157]
ERRAND BOYS
First Boy. "Where are yer goin' to, Bill?"
Second Boy. "I've got to go right over 'Ammersmith Bridge to Barnes, then I'se got to go to Putney and back by Fulham Road, then to 'Igh Street, Kensington.
First Boy. "Why, I've got to go to 'Igh Street. You go on. I'm in a bit of a hurry, but I'll wait for yer!"
[Pg 158]
Most Musical, Most Melancholy.—A Cockney gentleman who had been hearing a concert of old music, where every piece that was performed was in the programme termed an "op.," observed, as he went out, "Well, after all these 'ops, I vote we have some malt."
Cockneyism in the Country.—1st Cockney. I say, what sort of a 'ouse will do for a fowl-'ouse?
2nd Cockney. Lor' bless yer, hen-ny 'ouse.
Conundrum for Cockneys.—Which has the greater amount of animal heat, the beaver or the otter? Why, of course, the otter of the two.
SONG OF THE COCKNEY SPORTSMANHow happy could I be in heather,
At the grouse gaily blazing away!
But then, somehow, I can't touch a feather,
So 'tis better at Brighton to stay.
Pro Bono.—There is one first-rate joint that comes to table which is the Cockney's prime aversion—the h-bone.
[Pg 159]
A Model Model.
(The artist is rather shy, and has left his model to do the honours of his studio). "From whom did Mr. M'Gilp paint that head?"
"From yours obediently, madam. I sit for the 'eads of all 'is 'oly men."
"He must find you a very useful person."
"Yes, madam. I order his frames, stretch his canvases, wash his brushes, set his palette, and mix his colours. All he's got to do is just to shove 'em on!"
[Pg 160]
Tripper. "'Ere! 'Arf a mo'! Where's the change out o' that bob I gave yer?"
Bystander. "Don't worry about it, cocky; ain't you got the bloomin' 'oss as security!"
[Pg 161]
Holiday Driver (returning from a pic-nic). "Excuse me, sir, but can you see anything wrong with the 'arness of this 'ere 'orse?"
[Pg 162]
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