Title:  Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 102, Feb. 20, 1892

Author:  Various

Release Date:  December 10, 2004 [EBook #14321]

Language:  English

Character set encoding:  ASCII

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PUNCH,

Or the London charivari.

Vol. 102.

February 20, 1892.

JIM’S JOTTINGS.

No.  II.—­Rats’-rents, the renters and the rented.

    [In which Ginger Jimmy gives his views of Lazarus, Dives,
    Dirt, Mother Church, Slum-Freeholders and “Freedom of
    Contract.”]

  “The Golgotha of Slumland!” That’s a phrase as I am told
  Is made use of by a party,—­wich that party must be bold,—­
  In the name of Mister Lazarus, a good Saint Pancrage gent,
  Wot has writ a book on Slumland, and its Landlords, and its Rent.[1]

  He’s a Member of the “Westry ’Ealth Committee,” so it seems,
  And the story wot he tells will sound, to some, like ’orrid
          dreams. 
  But, lor bless yer! we knows better, and if sech ’cute coves as
          ’im
  Want to ferret hout the facks, they might apply to Ginger Jim.

  There’s the mischief in these matters; them as knows won’t always
          tell. 
  Wy, if you want to spot a “screw,” or track up a bad smell,
  You’ve got to be a foxer, for whilst slums makes topping rent,
  There will always be lots ’anging round to put yer off the scent!

  I can tell yer arf the right ’uns even ain’t quite in the know,
  And there’s lots o’ little fakes to make ’em boggle, or go slow. 
  Werry plorserble their statements, and they puts ’em nice and plain,
  And a crockidile can drop ’em when ’e once turns on the main.

  All the tenants’ faults; they likes it, dirt, and scrowging, and
          damp walls! 
  They git used to ’orrid odours!  O the Landlord’s tear-drop falls. 
  Werry often, when collecting of his rents, to see the ’oles
  Where the parties as must pay ’em up prefers to stick, pore souls!

  No compulsion, not a mossel!  Ah, my noble lords and gents
  Who are up in arms for Libbaty—­that is, of paying rents—­
  You’ve rum notions of Compulsion.  NOCKY Spriggins sez, sez ’e,
  While you’ve got a chice of starving, or the workus, ain’t ye
          free!

  Free?  O vus, we’re free all round like; there ain’t ne’er a
          bloomin’ slave,
  White or black, but wot is free enough—­to pop into ’is grave;
  Though if they ketch yer trying even that game, and yer fail,
  Yer next skool for teaching freedom ain’t the workus, but the jail!