Sort o’ cosy romanticky feeling a-paddling along them canals,
  With the manderlines twangling all round, and the larf of the
          gayest of gals
  Gurgling up through the Hightalian hair—­though it do ’ave a
          cockneyfied sniff,—­
  Wy it’s better than spooning at Marlow with MOLLY MOLLOY in a skiff.

  I felt like Lord BYRON, I tell yer; I stretched myself, orty-like,
          hout,
  And wished it could go on all night, wich my pardner did ditto, no
          doubt. 
  Modern Venice in minichure, CHARLIE, ain’t really so dusty, you bet;
  I wos quite a Bassanio in breeks, and I ain’t lost the twang of it
          yet.

  My Portia wos POLLY MARIA; she tipped me her name fair and free;
  And a pootier young mossel o’ muslin, I never ’ad perch on my
          knee. 
  No side on ’er, nothink lowlived, CHARLIE, ladylike down to the
          ground,
  I called ’er my fair “Bride of Venice.”  In fact, we wos ’appy all
          round.

  She said I wos ’er form to a hounce, and if anyone looked more
          O.K.,
  In a nobby Gondoler than me, well that chap ’adn’t travelled ’er
          way;
  Wich wos Barnsbury Park—­so she whispered, with sech a sly
          giggle, dear boy! 
  I sez “Bully for IMRE KIRALFY!  His Show is a thing to henjoy!”

  And so it is, CHARLIE, old hoyster.  The music is twangly, I own,
  And if I’ve a fancy myself, ’taint hexactly the Great Xylophone;
  But the speeches of musical scratch-backs the dancers keep time
          with so pat,
  In that fairy-like Carnival Bally, fetched POLLY, ah, all round
          ’er ’at!

  That ’at wos a spanker, I tell yer; as big as the Doge’s
          State-Barge,
  And like all the “Four Seasons” in one!  “Well,” sez POLLY, “I do
          like ’em large,
  Them Venetian pork-pies ain’t my fancy, no room for no trimmings
          above. 
  They wouldn’t suit Barnsbury Park, though they might do ’The
          Castle of Love’!”

  Sort o’ needled her somehow, I fancy; but, bless yer, I soon put
          that straight. 
  Gals is wonderful touchy on togs!  Covent Garden piled high on a
          plate
  With a blue hostrich-feather all round it, mayn’t be man’s hidea
          of a tile,
  But I flattered her taste a rare bat, and soon ’ad her again on
          the smile.

  Well, “Venice the Bride of the Sea,” is wuth more than one visit,
          old pal,
  And I’ve got a hengagement next week to go there with the same
          pooty gal. 
  I’m going to read up the subjeck, I’ll cram for it all I can carry,
  For I’m bound to be fair, in the know if young POLLY should question

Yours, ’ARRY.

* * * * *