All of you come along with me!

'ARRY, who loves a fair old spree!

"Mugwump" with fine morgue delighted, Cynic at "yearnestness" sore frighted!

All of you come my "tap" to try!

I-twaddley-high-dry-high-toned I!

Come along, boys, Buy! Buy! Buy!

And I'm all right!

My name is GINGER JIMMY, and I live, when I'm to hum,

In Rats Rents, the kind o' nay'brood wot the Swells now calls a Slum.

I'm a bit thick in the clear, like, and don't quite know wot they mean,

But I guess it isn't mansions, and I'm sure it isn't clean.

They are always on the job now about Slums, and they do say

They are going to clear our Court out on the suddent some fine day.

Whether it's roads, or railways, or hotels, blowed if I know;

Only 'ope they'll give us notice, and some place where we can go.

'One is 'ome, if but a dungheap; if you're pitchforked out of that,

And turned loose in chilly London on the scoop, like a stray cat,

With yer bits o' sticks permiskus in a barrer or a truck,

I can tell yer you feels lost like, and fair down upon yer luck.

Heviction? When you're stoney-broke, your dubs all hup the spout,

And you've nix to raise the rent on, I suppose you must turn hout;

'Cos without them "rights o' proputty" no country couldn't jog;

But that brings a cove small comfort when 'e's 'ouseless, in a fog!

I 'ave knocked about a middlin' little bit, you bet I 'ave,

And I ain't what Barber BIDDLECOMBE would call "a heasy shave";

But these Sanitary codgers give me beans, and no mistake.

I am fly to most all capers, but don't tumble to their fake.

Seems to me all sentimental jor and cold chuck-out, it do.

They may call their big Committees, and may chat till all is blue,

But to shift me till they gives me somethink sweeter is all rot;

Better leave my garret winder, and the flower in the pot.

That gerenum there looks proper; which I bought it of a bloke

What does the "All a-blowin'!" with a barrer and a moke;

And though tuppences is tuppences, I ain't so jolly sure

As to spend two-d. upon it were to play the blooming cure

NICKY SPRIGGINS did chi-ike me. Reglar nubbly one is NOCK,

With about as much soft feelink as a blessed butcher's block.

He'd a made a spiffing Club Swell if he'd ony 'ad the chink,

With them lips like a ham sandwidge, and them eyes as never blink.

And I ain't no softy, neither, bet your buttons. That don't pay,

For you're 'bliged to keep yer eyes peeled and to twig the time o' day;

But I've got a mash on flowers; they are better than four 'arf,

Them red blazers in my winder; so let NOCKY 'ave his larf!

NOCKY tells me that the Westry means a-clearin' hout our place

For to make a bit o' garding, wot they calls a Hopen Space,

O I know the sort o' fakement, gravel walks, a patch o' grass,

And a sprinkle of young lime-trees of yer Thames Embankment class.

Some bloke spots the place as likely, and praps buys it on the cheap,

(Spekylators keeps their lids hup though the parish nobs may sleep,)

Pooty soon the pot's a-bilin' about Hopen Spaces. Yus!

And the chap as bought the bit o' ground is fust to raise the fuss.

Recreation for the People, Hopen Playgrounds for the Young!

That's the patter of the platformers; and don't they jest give tongue!

Well, it's opened with a flourish, and there's everyone content;

Pertiklerly the landlords round as nobbles better rent.

But I don't object to gardings, not a'mossel—t'other quite;

As I've said, a bit of green stuff and a flower is my delight;

I wish London wos more hopen, and more greener, and more gay;

Only people down our Court has got to live as well as play.

If they clears out the arf acre where we huddles orful close,

We must all turn out, that's certain; where we'll turn to, goodness knows;

And it won't be werry spashus, the new "Park" won't, arter all,

With the graveyard railinks one side, and on t'other a blank wall.

Wot we want is decent 'ouses, at a rent as doesn't take

'Arf a cove's poor screw to pay it. That 'a the present landlord's fake!

If they only knowed 'ow 'ard it is to meet "Saint Monday" square,

When yer ealth is werry middlin', and the jobs is werry rare!

P'raps them Dooks, and Earls, and Marquiges, and Kernels, wot they states

Has just clubbed theirselves together to keep down the bloomin' Rates,

And to smash the Kounty Kouncil, as they've bunnicked the Skool Board,

Jest a few of their hodd moments to our naybrood might afford.

They must 'ave a feelink 'art towards the poor, and no mistake,

Or they wouldn't take sech trouble for the poor Ratepayers' sake,

NOCKY SPRIGGENS sez it 'minds 'im of a League of Loving Cats

To purtect from traps and pizen the poor mice and starvin' rats.

Jest like NOCKY's narsty way that is! But if them Dooks would try

To assist the Kounty Kouncil in their new Committee—wy,

They might 'elp our Health and Housing in a style as none could mock,

Give the proud "Pergressives" what-for, and fair put the shut on NOCK.

Arter all yer Public Garding's little better than a chouse,

While the landlord rents yer heart out for a wretched Privit 'Ouse.

And yer Hopen Space's pootiness ain't much good to our sort,

Who are shut up in the dismal dens called 'Omes, gents, down our