rise!_

These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain't,
dear old boy.
They're all over the shop, like Miss ZAEO, wot street-kids seems so
to enjoy.
Mugs' game! They'll soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be
worried and welched,
And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought to
be squelched.

'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set
against Wealth
Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national
'ealth.
There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere
bellerers ban.
Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it,
old man?

Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of
St. Grouse,"
On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut
of the 'Ouse,
Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to
the Moors.
Small blame to 'em, CHARLIE, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs
and the boors!

Yet this 'ARRISON he sets _his_ back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle
a gun,
I'll bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion
of Fun.
"Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one;" that's wot _he_
says, sour old sap
Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise--eh,
old chap?

_Him_ sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather
and fur,
So long as yer never _kills_ nothink? Sech tommy-rot gives me
the spur.
Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things
to be shot?

"This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling
old wag.
From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag!
"Peaceful hills," that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no
luncheons, no game!
Wy, he ought to be tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton
with shame.

No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, CHARLIE,
this round;
But give me my gun, and a chance, a