Ah! Nobbles obliges, old pardner, and great is the power of “form”;
  Rads may rail at “the clarses” like ginger, but all on us likes to be
      “warm,”
  And rub shoulders with suckles more shiny.  Wy, life’s greatest pulls,
      dont cherknow,
  Are to look up to sparklers above us, and down on poor duffers below.

  ’Ardly know wich is lummiest, swelp me!  It’s nuts to ’ook on to a swell,
  Like I did at a Primrose meet lately with sweet Lady CLARE CARAMEL. 
  When her sunshade shone red on my face, mate, me givin’ my arm through
      the crush,
  Wy I felt like Mong Blong in the mornin’, and looked like a bride, one
      big blush.

  NODDY SPRIGGINS, he spotted me, CHARLIE,—­him being left out in the
      cold,—­
  And to see him sit down on his topper, and turn off as yaller as gold,
  Wos as good as a pantermime.  Oh! if there’s one thing more nicer than
      pie,
  It’s to soar like a bird in the sight of the flats as can’t git on the
      fly.

  But I’m wandering, CHARLIE, I’m wandering.  ’Oliday form is my text. 
  Last year it was Parry and Switzerland; ’ardly know where to go next. 
  I should much like to try Monty Carlo, and ’ave a fair flutter for once,
  But I fear it won’t run to it, pardner; my boss is the dashdest old
      dunce.

  Won’t raise me to three quid a week, the old skinflint.  Though
      travelling’s cheap,
  It do scatter the stamps jest a few, if you don’t care to go on the
      creep. 
  Roolette might jest set me up proper, but then, dontcherknow, it might
      not,
  And I fear I should come back cleared out, if my luck didn’t land me a
      pot.

  Oh, dash them spondulicks!  The pieces is all as I wants for my ’elth. 
  And then them darned Sosherlist jugginses ’owl till all’s blue agin
      Wealth. 
  It gives me the ditherums, CHARLIE; it do, dear old man, and no kid. 
  Wy, they ’d queer the best pitches in life, if they kiboshed the Power
      of the Quid!

  There’s Venice again!  I could start this next week with a couple o’ pals;
  But yer gondoler’s ’ardly my form, and I never wos nuts on canals. 
  WAGGLES says they’re not like the Grand Junction, as creeps sewer-like
      through our parks;
  Well, WAGGLES may sniff; I’m not sure, up to now, mate, as Venice means
      larks.

  ’Arf a mind to try Parry once more.  It’s a place as you soon git to love;
  There is always some fun afoot there, as will keep a chap fair on the
      shove. 
  Pooty scenery’s all very proper, but glaciers and snow-peaks do pall,
  And as to yer bloomin’ Black Forests, the Bor der Boolong beats ’em
      all.