“Riparian rights?  That’s the patter of Ahab to Naboth, of course;
  But ’tis pickles like you make it plausible, louts such as you give it
      force. 
  You make sweet Thames reaches Gehennas, the fair Norfolk Broads you
      befoul;
  You—­you, who’d make Beulah a hell with your blatant Bank Holiday
      howl!

  “Decent property-owners abhor you; you spread your coarse feasts on
      their lawns,
  And ’ARRY’s a hog when he feeds, and an ugly Yahoo when he yawns;
  You litter, and ravage, and cock-sky; you romp like a satyr obscene,
  And the noise of you rises to heaven till earth might blush red
      through her green.

  “You are moneyed, sometimes, and well-tailored; but come you from
      Oxford or Bow,
  You’re a flaring offence when you lounge, and a blundering pest when
      you row;
  Your ‘monkeyings’ mar every pageant, your shindyings spoil every sport,
  And there isn’t an Eden on earth but’s destroyed when it’s ’ARRY’s
      resort.

  “Then monopolist Mammon may chuckle, Riparian Ahabs rejoice;
  There’s excuse in your Caliban aspect, your hoarse and ear-torturing
      voice,
  You pitiful Cockney-born Cloten, you slum-bred Silenus, ’tis you
  Spoil the silver-streamed Thames for Pan-lovers, and all the
      nymph-worshipping crew!”

  I’ve “reported” as near as no matter!  I don’t hunderstand more than
      arf
  Of his patter; he’s preciously given to potry and classical charf. 
  But the cheek on it, CHARLIE!  A Stone-broke!  I should like to give
      him wot for,
  Only DANNEL the Dosser’s a dab orf of whom t’ain’t so easy to score.

[Illustration]

  But it’s time that this bunkum was bunnicked, bin fur too much on it
      of late—­
  Us on ’OPKINS’s ’Ouse-boat, I tell yer, cared nix for the
      ink-spiller’s “slate.”
  I mean doin’ them Broads later on, for free fishing and shooting,
      that’s flat. 
  If I don’t give them dash’d Norfolk Dumplings a doing, I’ll ’eat my
      old ’at.

  Rooral quiet, and rest, and refinement?  Oh, let ’em go home and eat
      coke. 
  These fussy old footlers whose ’air stands on hend at a row-de-dow
      joke,
  The song of the skylark sounds pooty, but “skylarking” song’s better
      fun,
  And you carn’t do the rooral to-rights on a tract and a tuppenny bun.

  As to colour, and kick-up, and sing-song, our party was fair to the
      front;
  But we wosn’t alone; lots of toppers, in ’Ouse-Boat, or four-oar, or
      punt,
  Wos a doin’ the rorty and rosy as lively as ’OPKINS’s lot,
  Ah! the swells sling it out pooty thick; they ain’t stashed by no
      ink-spiller’s rot.

  Bright blazers, and twingle-twang banjoes, and bottles of Bass, my
      dear boy,
  Lots of dashing, and splashing, and “mashing” are things every man
      must enjoy,
  And the petticoats ain’t fur behind ’em, you bet.  While top-ropes I
      can carry,
  It ain’t soap-board slop about “Quiet” will put the clear kibosh on