Punch (77.1879)

August 23, 1879.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAEIVARI.

83

'ARRY ON THE ROAD.

ear ChAKLIE,

Bin at it again. Oh, I ham

sech a 'ot 'un all round!
If there is any fun to the fore,
you '11 find. 'Arry all there,
I '11 be bound.
'Twas the River last week,
you '11 remember ; tbis time,
my dear boy, it's the Road.
Lor ! I tumbles to every fresh
fakement as easy as go and
be blowed.

'Twas a bit of a bean-feast,
yer see, and our lot tooled
it down in a drag.
Four-in-hands is the fashion
jest now with the pick of
Society's bag.

Our Toffs has bin took with a taste to turn hammytoor Jaryies—rum
fad !—

And a meet of the C.C. 's a picter as swell as can easy be 'ad.

I often trots down to the Park for a twig when they muster, my boy.
Sech Toppers a-tooling sech teams is a thing every Gent must enjoy.
And then the fine females ! Oh, Charlie, a Marcherness mounting
the box

Is a 'eavenly sight, and no error, to blokes as 'ain't Radical blocks.

We wosn't quite up to that form, but we 'ad a most nobby turn-out;
Sech cattle, my pippin!—four greys; and our Whip, though a little
bit stout,

Wos as clever a card as you'd drop on, he 'andled the ribbings to
rights.

And to see him negotiate corners was one of the loveliest sights.

I know a good 'oss when I see one; it isn't for nothing, old chump,
As I 'se parted so free to the Coachies, and artfully put on the pump.
Lor, the wrinkles and tips I 'ave landed a-'bussing it to and from
town!

Though them tuppenny smokes do run up when one's funds is a little
bit down.

'Bus-drivers is nuts on havanners and partial to goes of rum 'ot;
But it's wuth it, my boy, yus, it's wuth it, to know to a morrel
wot's wot.

There 's few of the pints of smart cattle but wot I am fly to at once,
And a Briton as ain't a bit 'ossy I holds is a mug and a dunce.

I 'ad the box-seat, mate, oh, trust me! I squared that like pie with
our Whip,

Which he gave me the tip confidential-like over our very fust nip.
Says he, "You're like B. and M.'s Matches—you strikes on the box,
Mate, you do."

And he gives a sly crook with his elber, and doubled hisself nigh in two.

That's a way as most Coachies 'ave got, you might think they wos
took pooty bad ;

Bat it's merely purfessional, Charlie. Oh! wosn't them other
chaps mad

When they twigged 'ow he spotted yours truly? He give me the
ribbings to 'old,

While Toil Blogg, who declares he drives tandem, wos simply left
out in the cold.

Then the 'orn-tootling, Chablie ! Ob, scissors! jest didn't we give
'em tantivy ?

To the wrath and disgust, I '11 lay tuppence, of many a drowsy old
mivvey.

We all 'ad a turn coming 'ome, and the gruntings, the wheezings,
and shrieks,

Must 'ave given the road such a rouser it won't be forgotten for
weeks.

Row ? Noosance ? Oh, nonsense ! Wot's that to a chap when he's
out for a game ?

I 'ave knowed most respectable buffers to do the hidentical same.
Wy, I spotted a lot of old gents tooling 'ome t'otber night from the
"Ship,"

And a-busting their cheeks in a style as seemed nuts to their smart-
looking Whip.

Ours said I'da lip, and no error. I know it got thundering sore.
Coach-'orns is a little bit brassy, and orkurdy small in the bore.
But cave in and cut it ? Not me ! No, I jest blew away like old
boots,

While the driver, my mouth being busy, obligingly blew my cheroots.

Tommy swore he was kidding me proper—we, Charlie ! I like the
idear.

But two 'ours of continual bellows do make a chap dizzy and queer.