PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

DEAR CHARLIE,—Rum mix this 'ere world is, yer never know wot'll come next!

Don't emagine I've sent yer a sermon, and treacle this out as my text;

But really life's turn-ups are twisters. You lay out for larks, 'ealth, and tin,

But whenever you think it's "a moral," that crock, "Unexpected," romps in.

Who'd ha' thought of me jacking up suddent, and giving the Sawbones a turn?

Who'd ha' pictered me "Taking the Waters"? Ah! CHARLIE, 'twos hodds on the Urn

With Yours Truly, this time, I essure you. I fancied as Tot'nam-Court Road

Would he trying its 'and on my tombstone afore the green corn wos full growed.

Bad, CHARLIE? You bet! 'Twas screwmatics and liver, old Pill-box declared.

Knocked me slap orf my perch, fair 'eels uppards. I tell you I felt a bit scared,

And it left me a yaller-skinned skelinton, weak, and, wot's wus, stoney-broke.

If it hadn't a bin for my nunky, your pal might have jest done a croak.

Uncle NOBBS, a Cat's-butcher at Clapton, who's bin in luck's way, and struck ile,

Is dead nuts on Yours Truly. Old josser, and grumpy, but he's made his pile.

Saw me settin' about in the garden, jest like a old saffron-gill'd ghost

A-waiting for cock-crow to 'ook it, and hanxious to 'ear it—a'most.

Sez he, "Wy, the boy is a bone-bag! Wot's that? Converlescent? Oh, fudge!

He's a slipping his cable, and drifting out sea-wards, if I'm any judge.

I was ditto some twenty year back, BOB, and 'Arrygate fust set me up.

Wot saved the old dog, brother ROBERT, may probably suit the young pup.

"Carn't afford it? O'course yer carn't, JENNY; but—thanks be to 'orse-flesh—I can—"

Well, he tipped us a fifty-quid crisp 'un—and ROOSE sent me 'ere; he's my Man!

Three weeks' "treatment"! Well, threes into fifty means cutting a bit of a dash;

Good grub, nobby togs, local doctor, baths, waters, and everythink flash.

"'Appy 'ARRY!" sez you. But way-oh, CHARLIE! 'Arrygate isn't all jam.

Me jolly? Well, mate, if you arsk me, I carn't 'ardly say as I ham.

To spread myself out with the toppers is proper, no doubt, bonny boy;

But—I wish it wos Brighton, or Margit, or somewheres a chap could enjoy.

Oh, them "Waters," old man!!! S'elp me never! yer don't kow wot nastyness is

Till you've tried "Sulphur 'ot and strong," fasting. The Kissing Gin, taken a-fizz,

Isn't wus than ditch-water and sherbet; but Sulphur!!! It's eased my game leg;

But I go with my heart in my mouth, and I feel like a blooming bad hegg.

B-r-r-r-r! Beastliness isn't the word, CHARLIE. Language seems out of it, slap.

When I took my fust twelve ounces 'ot, from a gal with a snowy white cap,

And cheeks like a blush-rose for bloominess—well, I'm a gent, but, yah-hah!

I jest did a guy at the double, without even nodding ta-ta!

Where the Primrose Path leads to, my pippin, I'm cocksure can't 'ave a wus smell.

Like bad eggs, salt, and tenpenny nails biled in bilge water. Eugh! Old Pump Well?

Wy then let well alone, is my motter, or leastways, it would be, I'm sure,

But for BLACK—local doctor, a stunner!—who's got me in 'and for a cure.

I'm not nuts on baths took too reglar; but 'Arrygate baths ain't 'arf bad,

When you git a bit used to 'em, CHARLIE. I squirmed, though fust off, dear old lad!

They so soused, and so slapped, and so squirted me. Messing a feller about

Don't come nicer for calling it massage. But there, it's O.K. I've no doubt.

They squat you upon a low shelf, with a sort of a water-can "rose"

At the nape of yer neck, while a feller in front squirts yer down with a 'ose.

He slaps you as though you wos batter, he kneads you as if you wos dough,

And gives yer wot for on the spine, till you git in a doose of a glow.

Then you're popped in a big iron cage, where the 'ose plays upon you like fun;

A lawn, or a house a-fire, CHARLIE, could not be more thoroughly done.

Sez I, "I'm insured, dontcher know, mate; so don't waste the water, d'ye 'ear?"

But he didn't appear to arf twig. He seemed jest a bit thick in the clear.

Then the bars of yer cage bustes out like a lot of scent fountings a-play—

'Taint oder colong, though, by hodds; sulphur strong seems the local bokay.

They call this the "Needle Bath," CHARLIE. It give me the needle fust off;

'Cos the spray would git into my eyes, and the squelch made me sputter and cough.

Then they wrop you well up in 'ot towels, and leave yer five minutes to bake,

And that's the "Aix Douche," as they call it. I call it the funniest fake

In the way of a bath I 'ave met with; but, bless yer, it passes the time,

And I shan't want a tub for a fortnit when back in Old Babbylon's grime.

Dull 'ole, this 'ere 'Arrygate, CHARLIE! The only fair fun I can find

Is watching the poor sulphur-swiggers, a-gargling and going it blind.

Oh, the sniffs and sour faces, old fellow, the shudders and shivers, and sighs;

The white lips a-working like rabbits', the sheepish blue-funk in their eyes!

Old Pump Room's a hoctygon building, rum blend like of chapel and bar,

With a big stained-glass winder one side, hallygorical subject! So far

As I've yet made it out, it's a hangel a-stirring up somethink like suds.

"A-troubling the waters," I 'eard from a party in clerical duds.

You arsk, like you do at a bar, for the speeches of lotion you want.

Some say; you git used to the flaviour, and like it! Bet long hodds I shan't.

I've sampled the lot, my dear CHARLIE, Strong Sulphur and Mild, Cold and 'Ot;

And all I can say is, the jossers who say it ain't beastly talk rot.

You jest fox their faces! They enters, looks round, gives a shy sort of sniff,

Seem to contemplate doing a guy, brace their legs, keep their hupper lips stiff;

Take their tickets, walk up to the counter, assumin' a sham sort of bounce,

And ask, shame-faced like, for their gargle, 'as p'r'aps is a 'ot sixteen hounce.

When they git it, a-fume in a tumbler, a-smelling like hegg-chests gone wrong,

They squirm, ask the snowy-capped gurl, "Is this right?"—"Yes, Sir. Sixteen ounce, strong!"

Sez the minx with a cold kind o' smile. "Ah—h—h! percisely!" they smirks, and walks round,

With this "Yorkshire Stinko" in their 'ands—and their 'earts in their mouths I'll be bound.

Then—Gulp! Oh Gewillikins, CHARLIE! it gives yer the ditherums, it do.

Bad enough if you 'ave to wolf one, but it fair gives yer beans when 'tis