PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

DEAR CHARLIE,—Spring's on us at last, and a proper old April we've 'ad,

Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday makers feel mad.

Rum cove that old Clerk o' the Weather; seems somehow to take a delight

In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer spite.

When we're fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or fact'ry, or shop,

The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the 'op;

But when Easter or Whitsuntide's 'andy, and outings all round is in train,

It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.

It's a orkud old universe, CHARLIE, most things go as crooked as Z.

Feelosophers may think it out, 'ARRY ain't got the 'eart, or the 'ead;

But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust laws, and no kid.

If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth and no quid!

'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing—on wheels;

For I've took to the bicycle, yus,—and can show a good many my 'eels.

You should see me lam into it, CHARLIE, along a smooth bit of straight road,

And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheeling, I'm blowed.

Larks fust and larks larst is my motter. Old RICHARDSON's rumbo is rot.

Preachy-preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to a sanit'ry pot;

But it isn't mere hexercise, CHARLIE, nor yet pooty scenery, and that,

As'll put 'ARRY's legs on the pelt. No, yours truly is not sech a flat.

Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good 'ealth, I've no doubt

That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere turning about,

Upon planks 'stead o' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling as wheeling's 'ard work,

And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always did shirk.

I ain't one o' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest 'ollered out, and a 'ump,

Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go slap off their chump.

You don't ketch me straining my 'eart till it cracks for a big silver mug.

No; 'ARRY takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel cosy and snug.

Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to champion form.

And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the Wheel-World by storm,

Went off like candle-snuff, CHARLIE, while stoopin' to lace up 'is boot.

Let them go for that game as are mind to, here's one as it certn'y won't soot.

But there's fun in it, CHARLIE, worked proper, you'd 'ardly emagine 'ow much,

If you ain't done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled some dawdling old Dutch.

Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the doddering old sort

As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it! that makes a'rf the sport!

'Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,

Ah! it give me what-for in my jints, and no end of a thundering thust;

I felt jest like a snake with skyattica doubling about on the loose,

As 'elpless as 'ot calf's-foot jelly, old man, and about as much use.

Now I don't like to look like a juggins, it's wot I carn't stand, s'elp my bob;

But you know I ain't heasy choked off, dear old pal, when I'm fair on the job.

So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall trees,

Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts. Oh, I tell yer 'twas "go as yer please."

They call it a "Park," and it's pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,

Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it's welting with rain;

Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges live there,

And they didn't like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did I care.

When they wentured a mild remonstration, I chucked 'em a smart bit o' lip,

With a big D or two—for the ladies—and wosn't they soon on the skip!

'Twos my own 'appy 'unting ground, CHARLIE, until I could fair feel my feet;

If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it'll do you a treat.

I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don't run yer much risk,

And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk;

And then came the barney, my bloater! I jined 'arf a dozen prime pals,

And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh'lly the gals.

No Club, mate, for me; that means money, and rules, sportsman form, and sech muck.

I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to pot-luck.

A rush twelve-a-breast is a gammock, twelve squeakers a going like one;

But "rules o' the road" dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and spile all the fun.

The "Charge o' the Light Brigade," CHARLIE? Well, mugs will keep spouting it still;

But wot is it to me and my mates, treadles loose, and a-chargin' down 'ill?

Dash, dust-clouds, wheel-whizz, whistles, squeakers, our 'owls, women's shrieks, and men's swears!

Oh, I tell yer it's 'Ades let loose, or all Babel a busting down-stairs.

Quiet slipping along in a line, like a blooming girl's school on the trot,

May suit the swell Club-men, my boy, but it isn't my form by a lot.

Don't I jest discumfuddle the donas, and bosh the old buffers as prowl

Along green country roads at their ease, till they're scared by my squeak, or my 'owl?

My "alarm" is a caution I tell yer; it sounds like some shrill old macaw,

Wot's bin blowed up with dynamite sudden; it gives yer a twist in the jaw,

And a pain in the 'ed when you 'ear it. I laugh till I shake in my socks

When I turn it on sharp on old gurls and they jump like a Jack-in-the-box.

I give 'em Ta-ra-ra, I tell yer, and Boom-de-ray likewise, dear boy.

'Ev'n bless 'im as started that song, with that chorus,—a boon and a joy!

Wy, the way as the werry words worrit respectables jest makes me bust;

When you chuck it 'em as you dash by, it riles wus than the row and the dust!

We lap up a rare lot of lotion, old man, in our spins out of town;

Pace, dust and chyike make yer chalky, and don't we just ladle it down?

And when I'm full up, and astride, with my shoulder well over the wheel,

And my knickerbocks pelting like pistons, I tell yer I make the thing squeal.

My form is chin close on the 'andle, my 'at set well back on my 'ed,

And my spine fairly 'umped to it, CHARLIE, and then carn't I paint the town red?

They call me "The Camel" for that, and my stomach-capas'ty for "wet."

Well, my motter is hease afore helegance. As for the liquor,—you bet!

There's a lot of old mivvies been writing long squeals to the