tions are that bloomin' selfish it fair gives a feller the sick,
I'm jest tidy myself, flush of tin, with no end of a thunderin' "pick,"
And now I've a chance of a outing to keep myself up to the mark,
I'm to stay in the doldrums at 'ome! It's _too_ much of a screamin'
old lark.

No, CHARLIE, boy, self-preservation's the fust law of Nature, yer know;
So I jest slung my 'ook like a shot and came here for a bite and a blow.
I'm as red as a bloomin' tomarter already, and talk about stodge!
Jest you arsk the old mivvey as caters for me at the crib where I lodge.

Number Seventeen, Paragon Place, is my diggings, mate, floor
Number Three,
From the right'and bow-winder's off-corner you ketch a side-squint of
the sea.
White stucco and hemerald sun-blinds, trailed up with a fine
"Glory" rose,
And a slavey as pooty as pie, if it weren't for the smuts on her nose.

Oh, I'm up to the knocker, I tell yer; fresh 'errins for breakfast,
old pal,
Bottled beer by the bucket, prime 'bacca, and oh, such a scrumptious
young gal!
Picked 'er up on the pier, mate, permiskus, last Wensday as ever was.
Whew!
She would take the shine out of some screamers, I tell yer, my pippin,
would Loo.

Dropped 'er 'at the feet of yours, truly, and 'ARRY, of course, was
all there.
Her 'airpins went flyin! Thinks I, that's a jolly fine sample of 'air;
As black as my boots, and as shiny, and oh! sech a 'eavenly smell.
"Hillo! Miss," sez I, "while you're 'andy, there's no need for
Mister RIMMEL."

That nicked 'er, my nibs. It's the patter as does it, of course _with_
good looks;
Gals do like a chap as can gab, as you'll find by them Libery books.
Take WEEDEE, my boy, or Miss BROUGHTON; you'll see if a feller would
tackle
A feminine fair up to dick, he 'as got to be dabs at the cackle.

And that's where _I_ score, my dear CHARLIE. Lor bless yer, in
'arf an 'our more,
Me and Loo was as cosy as cousins, tucked up in a nook on the shore.
Gives yer 'oliday outing a flaviour, the feminine element do,
Although, _ontry noo_, dear old pal, it's a tidy stiff drain on
yer "screw."

'Owsomever, flare up and blow "exes" is always my motter, yer see;
And I never minds blueing the pieces purwided I gets a good spree;
Wich is jest wot I'm 'aving at present. You'll say, at this pint,
I expect,
"'ARRY'S doing the Toff as per usual." To which, m