Wy, I knew an old ’atchet-faced party, as lodged in our ’ouse years ago,
  Oozed Greek as a plum-tree does gum-blobs; trarnslated for BUFFINS & Co.,
  The popular publishers, CHARLIE.  I know ’twas a dooce of a grind
  For poor MAGSWORTH to earn fifteen quid, and at last he went hout of ’is
      mind.

  Yus, died of a softening, they told us, through sitting up six months on
      end
  At a book of Greek plays.  Poor old buffer, he hadn’t five pounds nor a
      friend;
  But Degrees?  He fair rolled in ’em, CHARLIE!  He offered to teach me a lot,
  But one lesson in Greek settled me; it’s the crackjorest speshus of rot!

  ARRY STUFFY KNEES sounds pooty ropy; he’s one of their classickal pets;
  Old THOOSY DIDES, too, he’s another.  In high Huniwarsity sets
  They chuck ’em in chunks at each other, like mossels of Music ’All gag,
  And at forty they’ve clean slap forgot ’em! I want to know where comes
      the swag?

  Hedgercation is all very proper, purviding it gives yer the pull
  Hover parties as don’t know the ropes, in a market that’s mostly too full;
  But this Classick kerriculum’s kibosh, Greek plays, Latin verse and all
      that. 
  All CAT ULLUS’s haitches won’t ’elp yer, if Nature ’as built yer a flat!

  Though ARRIUS’s haspirates rucked, and made Mister CAT ULLUS chi-ike,
  He was probably jest such a rattler as poets and prigs never like,
  When a chap knows ’is book, piles the ochre, perhaps becomes pal to a
      Prince,
  Lor! it’s wonderful ’ow a dropped haitch or two do make the
      mealy-mouths wince.

  Wot’s a haitch but a garsp, arter all?  Yer swell haspirate’s only a
      breath,
  Yet, like eating green peas with a knife, it scumfoodles the sniffers to
      death,
  As a fack the knife’s ’andiest, fur, and there’s many a haitch-screwing
      toff
  Who would find patter easier biz if the motter was “haspirates is hoff!”

  The ’Igher Hedgercation means “savvy”; you size up the world, patter
      slang,
  Hit slick, give what for, and Compulsory Latin and Greek may go ’ang. 
  That’s “modernity,” CHARLIE!  Style, modesty, taste?  Oh, go ’ome and eat
      coke! 
  Old STUFFY KNEES wouldn’t ’ave tumbled, you bet, to a Music ’All joke.

  “Jest fancy a gentleman not knowing Greek!” So a josser named FROUDE
  Said some time ago.  Oh Gewillikens!  Must ha’ bin dotty or screwed. 
  A modern School Master could hopen his hoptics a mossel, you bet;
  Greek’s corpsed, and them graduate woters will flock to its funeral yet.

  “We’re going to plant it to-morrer!” That comic song ’its it at once. 
  “Attic lore” will be blowed attic-high; and the duffers who dub you a
      dunce
  ’Cos yer ’OMER, or haitches, is quisby, in Rome or in London, will know
  That ARRIUS—­or ’ARRY—­romps in while CAT ULLUS is stopping to blow.