The Sibyl in the times of old,

Who dealt in charms unlawful,

Had hair unkempt and eyes that rolled

'Mid conjurations awful.

The prophetess of modern days,

Who dabbles in divining,

A pair of pleasant eyes will raise,

'Neath hair that's soft and shining.

The latest "fad" appears to be

Commingled fact and fancy,

What led of old Leuconöe

To trust to chiromancy.

Which is, the victim understands,

That each vice or perfection

Can be discovered in his hands

By Sibylline inspection.

She'll tell us all the Mounts and Lines

Of Saturn and of Venus;

With man and wife her skill divines

What shadows come between us.

She sees in hands a taste for Art,

For Music, or for Letters,

And knows how often each poor heart

Has yielded to Love's fetters.

It's rather hard to stand and hear

Your character decided,

And imperfections that appear,

By captious friends derided.

Yet if you'll listen to advice,

You'll smile, and looking pleasant,

Trust only prophecies when nice,

Of either past or present.

I'm much obligated for that there St. James's Gazette

As you sent me larst Satterday's post. I 'ave read it with hintrest, you bet;

Leastways, more pertikler the harticle writ on "yours truly," dear boy;

Wich the paper is one as a gent who is reelly a gent can enjoy.

I shall paternize it with much pleasure; it's steep, but it's puffect good form.

Seems smart at the "ground" and the "lofty," and makes it tremenjusly warm

For Willyum the Woodchopper. Scissors! His name's never orf of their lips.

Wy, it's worth a fair six d a week jest to see 'em a slating Old Chips!

Proves as 'Arry is well to the front wen sech higperlite pens pop on him,

Does me proud and no herror, dear pal; shows we're both in the same bloomin' swim.

Still, they don't cop my phiz quite ker-rect; they know Gladstone right down to the ground;

But I ain't quite so easy 'it off, don'tcher see, if you take me all round.

Old Collars is simple as lyin', becos he's all bad, poor old 'ack,

And you can't be fur out in his portrait as long as you slop on the black.

But I'm quite another guess sort; penny plain, tuppence coloured, yer see,

May do all very well for the ruck; but they'll find it won't arnser for me!

I'm a daisy, dear boy, and no 'eeltaps! I wish the St. James's young man

Could drop into my diggings permiskus; he's welcome whenever he can;

For he isn't no J., that's a moral; I don't bear no malice; no fear!

But I'd open 'is hoptics a mossel concernin' my style and my spere.

The essence of 'Arry, he sez, is high sperrits. That ain't so fur out.

I'm "Fiz," not four 'arf, my dear feller. Flare-up is my motter, no doubt.

Carn't set in a corner canoodling, and do the Q. T. day and night.

My mug, mate, was made for a larf, and you don't ketch it pulling a kite.

So fur all serene; but this joker, I tell yer, runs slap orf the track

Wen he says that my togs and my talk are "the fashion of sev'ral years back."

The slang of the past is my patter—mine, Charlie, he sez! Poor young man!

If I carn't keep upsides with the cackle of snide 'uns, dear Charlie, who can?

Wot is slang, my dear boy, that's the question. The mugs and the jugs never joke,

Never gag, never work in a wheeze; no, their talk is all skilly and toke,

'Cos they ain't got no bloomin' hinvention; they keeps to the old line of rails,

With about as much "go" as a Blue Point, about as much rattle as snails.

Mavor's Spellin' and Copybook motters is all they can run to. But slang?

Wy, it's simply smart patter, of wich ony me and my sort 'as the 'ang.

Snappy snideness put pithy, my pippin, the pick of the chick and the hodd,

And it fettles up talk, my dear Charlie, like 'ot hoyster sauce with biled cod.

"Swell vernacular"? Swells don't invent it; they nick it from hus, and no kid.

Did a swell ever start a new wheeze? Would it 'ave any run if he did?

Let the ink-slingers trot out their kibosh, and jest see 'ow flabby it falls.

Bet it won't raise a grin at the bar, bet it won't git a 'and at the 'Alls.

And fancy my slang being stale, Charlie! Gives me the needle, that do.

In course I've been in it for years, mate, and mix up the old and the new;

But if the St. James's young gentleman fancies hisself on this lay,

I'll "slang" him for glasses all round, him whose patter fust fails 'im to pay.

Then he sez, "'Arry's always a Londoner." Shows 'Arry ain't no bad judge.

"Wot the crockerdile is to the Nile 'Arry is to the Thames." Well, that's fudge.

That's a ink-slinger's try-on at patter. Might jest as well