Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 15, 1892 by Various


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Page 1

Still a houting to Bolton ain't bad when the _charry-bang's_ well
loaded up
With swell seven-and-sixpence-a-headers. _I_ felt like a tarrier-pup
On the scoop arter six weeks of kennel and drench in the 'ands of
a vet;
I'd got free of the brimstoney flaviour and went it accordin', you
bet!

'Ad a day at a village called Birstwith. The most tooralooralest
scene,
'Oiler down among 'ills, dontcher know, ancient trees and a jolly
big green.
Reglar old Rip-van-Winkleish spot, sech as CALDECOTT ought to ha'
sketched.
Though I ain't noways nuts on the pastoral, even Yours Truly wos
fetched.

Pooty sight and no error, old pal! 'Twos a grand "Aughticultural
Show,"
So the "Progrum of Sports" told the public. Fruit, flowers, and
live poultry, yer know.
Big markee and a range of old 'en-coops, sports, niggers, a smart
local band,
Cottage gardemn', cheese, roosters, and races! Rum mix, but I gave
it a 'and.

I do like to hencourage the joskins. One thing though, wos
fiddle-de-dee,
They 'ad a "Refreshment Tent," CHARLIE. 'Oh my! Ginger-ale and
weak tea!
Nothink stronger, old pal, s'elp me bob! Fancy _me_ flopping down
on a form
A-munching plum-putty, and lapping Bohea as wos not even warm!

This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and
bands on the "Stray"
(Big lumpy old field in a 'ole, wich if properly managed might pay.)
Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black,
With a orful tremoler, my pippin!--yus, these are the pick of the
pack.

Bit sick of "_Ta-ra-ra_" and "_Knocked 'em_;" "_Carissimar_" gives
me the 'ump,
For I 'ear it some six times per morning; and then there's a footy
old pump
Blows staggery toons on a post-'orn for full arf a-hour each day,
To muster the mugs for a coach-drive. My heye and a bandbox, it's
gay!

At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate
lot,
For even the Spa's a bit samesome for six times a week when it's
'ot;
Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts,
and such;
Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny
touch.

But even yer Fancy Dress Balls, and yer lectures by ANNIE BESANT,
All about Hastral Bodies and Hether, seems not always _quite_ wot
yer want
To wile away time arter dinner. So thanks to that
gent--six-foot-four!--
Who fair cuts the record as Droring-Room M.C.--of course
_hammytoor_.

Then we've conjurors, worblers, phrenologists! One 'ad a go at
_my_ chump.
'E touzled my 'air up tremenjus, and said I'd no hend of a bump
Of somethink he called "Happrybativeness." Feller meant well, I
suppose,
But I didn't quite relish his smile, nor his rummy remarks on my
nose.

When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a
blush--rose in bloom,
'As 'er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the
whole room,
'Tisn't nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening
'is wit
On your nob, and a rumpling your 'air till it's like a birch-broom
in a fit!

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Mon 19th Aug 2019, 12:34