One caper we ’ad, on the lawn, wos a spree and no error, old man. 
  They call it a “Soap-Bubble Tournyment.”  Soapsuds, a pipe, and a
          fan,
  Four six—­foot posts stuck in the ground with a tape run
          around—­them’s the “props,”
  And lawn-tennis ain’t in it for larks.  Oh, the ladies did larf,
          though tip-tops!

  Bit sniffy fust off.  “Oh!” sez they, “wot a most hintellectual
          game!”
  But I noticed that them as sneered most wos most anxious to win,
          all the same,
  The gent he stands slap in the middle, and tries to blow bubbles
          like fun,
  Wich his pardner fans over the tape; don’t it jest keep the girls
          on the run!

  Every bubble as crosses the tape afore busting counts one to that
          pair,
  And the pair as counts most wins the prize.  They are timed by a
          hegg-boiler.  There! 
  It wos all a pantermime, CHARLIE, to see ’ow them gurls scooted
          round,
  Jest like Japanese jugglers, a-fanning the bubbles, as would ’ug
          the ground.

  Some gents wos fair frosts at the bizness; one good-’earted trim
          little toff
  Would blow with the bowl wrong end uppards.  His pardner went pink
          and flounced off. 
  He gurgled away like a babe with a pap-bottle, guggle—­gug—­gug! 
  And I ’eard ’er a-giving ’im beans as ’e mizzled, much down in the
          mug.

  Owsomever, it ain’t for amusements as ’Arrygate lays itself hout;
  So, dear boy, it’s for doses and douches; and there it scores
          freely, no doubt,
  Wy, there’s thirty-two Springs in the Bog Field—­a place like a
          graveyard gone wrong—­
  Besides Starbeck, the Tewit, and others, all narsty, and most on
          ’em strong.

  Since Sir SLINGSBY discovered the first one, now close on three
          cent’ries ago,
  Wot a lush of mixed mineral muck these ’ere ’Arrygate Springs ’ave
          let flow! 
  Well, ere’s bully for Brimstone, my bloater, and ’ooray for
          ’Arrygate air! 
  Wich ’as done me most good I don’t know, and I’m scorched if I
          very much care!

  I know ’Arrygate girls cop the biscuit for beauty.  They’ve cheeks
          like the rose,
  Their skin is jest strorberries and cream; it’s the sulphur, dear
          boy, I suppose. 
  As for me, I look yaller as taller alongside ’em CHARLIE, wus luck! 
  I ’eard one call me saffron-faced sparrer, and jest as I thought
          ’er fair struck.

  I’d nail ’em, in time, I’ve no doubt, when I once got the ’ang of
          their style. 
  There’s a gal at the Montpellier Baths.  Scissoree! ’ow I’ve tried
          for a smile,
  When she tips me my tannersworth!  Shucks! she’s as orty and stiff
          as yer please. 
  Primrose Dames isn’t in it for snubs with these arrygant
          ’Arrygatese!