My blazer was claret and mustard, my “stror” was a rainbow gone
      wrong;
  I ain’t one who’s ashamed of his colours, but likes ’em mixed
      middlingish strong. 
  ’EMMY ’OPKINS, the fluffy-’aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe,
  Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy
      blue.

  Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss EMMY; but that’s only jest by the
      way,
  ’ARRY ain’t one to brag of bong four tunes; but wot I wos wanting
      to say
  Is about this here “spiling the River” which snarlers set down to our
      sort. 
  Bosh!  CHARLIE, extreme Tommy rot!  It’s these sniffers as want to
      spile sport.

  Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the
      strictest Q.T. 
  Their idea of the Thames being “spiled” by the smallest suggestion of
      spree,
  Wy it’s right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the ditherums,
      it do. 
  I mean going for them a rare bat, and I’m game to wire in till all’s
      blue.

  Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace,
  Who would silence the gay “constant-screamer” and line the Thames
      banks with perlice;
  Who sneer about “’ARRY at ’Enley,” and sniff about “cads on the course,”
  As though it meant “Satan in Eden”?  I’ll ’owl at sich oafs till I’m
      ’oarse!

  Scrap o’sandwich-greased paper’ll shock ’em, a ginger-beer bottle or
      “Bass,”
  Wot ’appens to drop ’mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the
      grass,
  Makes ’em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan.  Br-r-r-r!  Wot old mivvies
      they are! 
  Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart Banjo-twang makes ’em jar.

  I’m Toffy, you know, and no flies, CHARLIE; swim with the Swells, and
      all that,
  But I’m blowed if this bunkum don’t make me inclined to turn Radical
      rat. 
  “Riparian Rights,” too!  Oh Scissors!  They’d block the Backwaters and
      Broads,
  Because me and my pals likes a lark!  Serve ’em right if old BURNS
      busts their ’oards!

  Rum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters!  There’s DANNEL, the
      Dosser, old chap. 
  As you’ve ’eard me elude to afore.  Fair stone-broker, not wuth ’arf
      a rap,—­
  Knows it’s all Cooper’s ducks with him, CHARLIE; won’t run to a pint
      o’ four ’arf,
  And yet he will slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans with his
      charf.

[Illustration]

  Sez DANNEL—­and dash his darned cheek, CHARLIE!—­“Monkeys like
      you”—­meaning Me!—­
  “Give the latter-day Mammon his chance.  Your idea of a lark or a spree
  Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, and Nastiness!  Dives, who wants an
      excuse
  For exclusiveness, finds it in you, you contemptible coarse-cackling
      goose!