bit beyond me,
But to fancy as them as _has_ got 'em will part is dashed fiddle-de-dee.

Normans nicked? Landlords copped? Lawyers fiddled? Quite likely; I dessay
they did.
Are they going to hand back the swag arter years? Not a hacre or quid!
Finding's keeping, and 'olding means 'aving. I wish _I_'d a spanking
estate
Wot my hancestors nailed on the ready. They wouldn't wipe me orf the
slate.

No fear, CHARLIE, my boy! I'd hang on by my eyelids; and so will the
nobs,
Despite Mounseer Roosso's palaver or rattletrap rubbish like BOB'S.
As HUXLEY sez, Robbery's whitewashed by centries of toffdom, dear boy.
Poor pilgarlicks whose forbears wos honest rich perks earn't expect to
enjoy.

Life's a great game of grab, fur's _I_ see, CHARLIE. Robbery? Well,
_call_ it that.
If you only lay hands on your own, mate, you won't git remarkable fat.
There isn't enough to go round and yet give a fair dollop to each,
It's a fight for front place, and he's lucky who gets the first bite at
the peach.

_High priori_ hideas about Justice, as HUXLEY declares, is all rot.
Fancy tigers dividing a carcase, and portioning each his fair lot!
"Aren't men better than tigers?" cries BUGGINS. Well, yus, there's
religion and law;
Pooty fakes! But when _sharing's_ the word they ain't in it with sheer
tooth and claw.

Orful nice to see Science confirming wot _I_ always held. Blow me tight,
If I don't rayther cotton to HUXLEY; he's racy, old pal, and he's right.
The skim-milk of life's for the many, the lardy few lap up the cream,
And all talk about trimming the balance is rubbish, a mere Roosso's
Dream!

Philanterpy's all very nice as a plaything for soft-'arted toffs,
Kep in bounds it don't do no great 'arm. Poor old BUGGINS, he flushes
and coughs;
Gets hangry, he do, at my talk. I sez, keep on your hair, my good bloke,
Hindignation ain't good for your chest; cut this Sosherlist cant, or
_you'll_ choke.

Philanterpy squared in a system would play up Old Nick with the Great,
As 'cute Bishop MAGEE sez Religion would do--_carried out_--with the
State.
Oh, when Science and Saintship shake hands, in a sperret of sound common
sense,
To chuck over the cant of the Pulpit, by Jingo, old pal, it's Himmense!

All cop and no blue ain't _my_ motter; I like