Punch, or The London Charivari

le or "Bass," Wot 'appens to drop 'mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the grass, Makes 'em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan. Br-r-r-r! Wot old mivvies they are! Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart Banjo-twang makes 'em jar.

I'm Toffy, you know, and no flies, CHARLIE; swim with the Swells, and all that, But I'm blowed if this bunkum don't make me inclined to turn Radical rat. "Riparian Rights," too! Oh Scissors! They'd block the Backwaters and Broads, Because me and my pals likes a lark! Serve 'em right if old BURNS busts their 'oards!

Rum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters! There's DANNEL, the Dosser, old chap. As you've 'eard me elude to afore. Fair stone-broker, not wuth 'arf a rap,-- Knows it's all Cooper's ducks with him, CHARLIE; won't run to a pint o' four 'arf, And yet he will slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans with his charf.

[Illustration]

Sez DANNEL--and dash his