Pooty sight and no error, old pal!  ’Twos a grand “Aughticultural
          Show,”
  So the “Progrum of Sports” told the public.  Fruit, flowers, and
          live poultry, yer know. 
  Big markee and a range of old ’en-coops, sports, niggers, a smart
          local band,
  Cottage gardemn’, cheese, roosters, and races!  Rum mix, but I gave
          it a ’and.

  I do like to hencourage the joskins.  One thing though, wos
          fiddle-de-dee,
  They ’ad a “Refreshment Tent,” Charlie.  ’Oh my!  Ginger-ale and
          weak tea! 
  Nothink stronger, old pal, s’elp me bob!  Fancy me flopping down
          on a form
  A-munching plum-putty, and lapping Bohea as wos not even warm!

  This ’ere ’Arrygate’s short of amusements.  There’s niggers and
          bands on the “Stray”
  (Big lumpy old field in a ’ole, wich if properly managed might pay.)
  Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black,
  With a orful tremoler, my pippin!—­yus, these are the pick of the
          pack.

  Bit sick of “Ta-ra-ra” and “Knocked ’em;” “Carissimar” gives
          me the ’ump,
  For I ’ear it some six times per morning; and then there’s a footy
          old pump
  Blows staggery toons on a post-’orn for full arf a-hour each day,
  To muster the mugs for a coach-drive.  My heye and a bandbox, it’s
          gay!

  At the “Crown” we git up little barnies, to eke out the ’Arrygate
          lot,
  For even the Spa’s a bit samesome for six times a week when it’s
          ’ot;
  Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts,
          and such;
  Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny
          touch.

  But even yer Fancy Dress Balls, and yer lectures by Annie Besant,
  All about Hastral Bodies and Hether, seems not always quite wot
          yer want
  To wile away time arter dinner.  So thanks to that
          gent—­six-foot-four!—­
  Who fair cuts the record as Droring-Room M.C.—­of course
          hammytoor.

  Then we’ve conjurors, worblers, phrenologists!  One ’ad a go at
          my chump. 
  ’E touzled my ’air up tremenjus, and said I’d no hend of a bump
  Of somethink he called “Happrybativeness.”  Feller meant well, I
          suppose,
  But I didn’t quite relish his smile, nor his rummy remarks on my
          nose.

  When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a
          blush—­rose in bloom,
  ’As ’er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the
          whole room,
  ’Tisn’t nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening
          ’is wit
  On your nob, and a rumpling your ’air till it’s like a birch-broom
          in a fit!