ear CHARLIE,—It's 'ot, and no error! Summer on us, at last, with a bust;

Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin' thust.

Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday still;

So I'll pull out my eskrytor, CHARLIE, and give you a touch of my quill.

If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear old pal;

Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal.

Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. Well, it's true;

But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?

Didn't spot you at 'Enley, old oyster—I did 'ope you'd shove in your oar.

We 'ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour.

'Ad a invite to 'OPKINS's 'Ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party, yer know,

Pooty girls, first-class lotion, and music. I tell yer we did let things go.

Who sez 'Enley ain't up to old form, that Society gives it the slip?

Wish you could 'ave seen us—and heard us—old boy, when aboard of our ship.

Peonies and poppies ain't in it for colour with our little lot,

And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up 'ot.

My blazer was claret and mustard, my "stror" was a rainbow gone wrong;

I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed middlingish strong.

'EMMY 'OPKINS, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe,

Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy blue.

Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss EMMY; but that's only jest by the way,

'ARRY ain't one to brag of bong four tunes; but wot I wos wanting to say

Is about this here "spiling the River" which snarlers set down to our sort.

Bosh! CHARLIE, extreme Tommy rot! It's these sniffers as want to spile sport.

Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the strictest Q.T.

Their idea of the Thames being "spiled" by the smallest suggestion of spree,

Wy it's right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the ditherums, it do.

I mean going for them a rare bat, and I'm game to wire in till all's blue.

Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace,

Who would silence the gay "constant-screamer" and line the Thames banks with perlice;

Who sneer about "'ARRY at 'Enley," and sniff about "cads on the course,"

As though it meant "Satan in Eden"? I'll 'owl at sich oafs till I'm 'oarse!

Scrap o'sandwich-greased paper'll shock 'em, a ginger-beer bottle 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.

Sez DANNEL—and dash his darned cheek, CHARLIE!—"Monkeys like you"—meaning Me!—

"Give the latter-day Mammon his chance. Your idea of a lark or a spree

Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, and Nastiness! Dives, who wants an excuse

For exclusiveness, finds it in you, you contemptible coarse-cackling goose!

"Riparian rights? That's the patter of Ahab to Naboth, of course;

But 'tis pickles like you make it plausible, louts such as you give it force.

You make sweet Thames reaches Gehennas, the fair Norfolk Broads you befoul;

You—you, who'd make Beulah a hell with your blatant Bank Holiday howl!

"Decent property-owners abhor you; you spread your coarse feasts on their lawns,

And 'ARRY's a hog when he feeds, and an ugly Yahoo when he yawns;

You litter, and ravage, and cock-sky; you romp like a satyr obscene,

And the noise of you rises to heaven till earth might blush red through her green.

"You are moneyed, sometimes, and well-tailored; but come you from Oxford or Bow,

You're a flaring offence when you lounge, and a blundering pest when you row;

Your 'monkeyings' mar every pageant, your shindyings spoil every sport,

And there isn't an Eden on earth but's destroyed when it's 'ARRY's resort.

"Then monopolist Mammon may chuckle, Riparian Ahabs rejoice;

There's excuse in your Caliban aspect, your hoarse and ear-torturing voice,

You pitiful Cockney-born Cloten, you slum-bred Silenus, 'tis you

Spoil the silver-streamed Thames for Pan-lovers, and all the nymph-worshipping crew!"

I've "reported" as near as no matter! I don't hunderstand more than arf

Of his patter; he's preciously given to potry and classical charf.

But the cheek on it, CHARLIE! A Stone-broke! I should like to give him wot for,

Only DANNEL the Dosser's a dab orf of whom t'ain't so easy to score.

But it's time that this bunkum was bunnicked, bin fur too much on it of late—

Us on 'OPKINS's 'Ouse-boat, I tell yer, cared nix for the ink-spiller's "slate."

I mean doin' them Broads later on, for free fishing and shooting, that's flat.

If I don't give them dash'd Norfolk Dumplings a doing, I'll 'eat my old 'at.

Rooral quiet, and rest, and refinement? Oh, let 'em go home and eat coke.

These fussy old