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Page 2
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! _per_cisely!"
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 _two_.
The wictims waltz round, looking white, wishing someone would just
spill _their_ wet,
And--there's 'ardly a glass "returned empty" but wot shows its
'eel-taps, you bet!
This is "Taking the Waters" at 'Arrygate! Well, I shall soon take
my 'ook.
Speshal Scotch, at my favourite pub, from that sparkling young
dona, NELL COOK,
Will do me a treat arter this, mate, and come most pertikler A 1.
'Ow I long to be back in "The Village," dear boy, with its bustle
and fun!
Still, the air 'ere's as fresh as they make it, and gives yer a
doose of a peck,
And DUNSING, the Boss at "The Crown," does yer proper. I came 'ere
a wreck;
But sulphur, sound sleep, and cool breezes, prime prog, and good
company tells;
So 'ere's bully for 'Arrygate, CHARLIE, in spite of rum baths and
bad smells.
That Fifty is nearly played out, and my slap at the Ebor went
wrong--
I'd a Yorkshire tyke's tip, too, old man; but I'm stoney, though
still "going strong"
(As _Lord Arthur_ remarks in the play), so no more at "The Crown"
I must tarry,
But if 'Arrygate wants a good word--as to 'ealth--it shall 'ave it
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