Punch (77.1879)

November 15, 1879.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 217

GENIUS AND ITS HOBBIES.

Ludwig Bemolski, the great Composer, fondly imagines he can draw
in water-colours, while his old friend, wllkie turner brown, the
famous Landscape-Painter, is under the delusion that he can write
songs (and sing them) [ so that whenever they meet to spend a pleasant
evening, Bemolski insists on inflicting his fearful daubs on Brown,
who persists in regaling Bemolski with the most ghastly settings of
our best poets to music.

Brown. "Break, break, break," &c, &c.

Bemolski. " Anozer Tutch Vint-mill ! "

'ARRY IN PARRY.

Cher Charlie,

J'y swee ay fy reste—for a fortnit or so. Ain't it prime ?
I landed on Maine Dor, yer know, and I've 'ad sech a proper old time.
And as 'twas the French. 'Oss as plumbed me and give me my chance of a hout,
I thought I 'd trot over to Parry, and see wot the frogs was about.

Oh, a pocketful do perk one up like. I laid in a sweet suit o' stripes,
And went in a regular crusher for neckties, light kids, and silk wipes.
If you'd twigged me, dear boy, on the start you'd 'a said I was mixing it
strong,

But didn't it jest fetch ces dames as I druv in the Bwor der Boolong f

Stunning place, though the trees is too spindly, like all Parry trees, my dear
boy—

Not Greenwich Park form by a lot; but the City's a thing to enjoy.
I've picked up a heap of the patter, and feels myself pooty ofay,
Tor, in course, to be out of the chat floors a feller in doing the gay.

Not so rorty as London, my pippin, and tant swor poo frothy and thin ;

I 'ope you are fly to the Lingo ; so I tip you the Parleyvoo in.

Comes nateral now, don't yer know, though more orkerd to write than to speak.

But my haccent's considered the cheese, and my style o' pronouncin' it chic.

Not so rorty as London,_ I said, and I sticks to it. Somehow, yer know,
One feels jest a little mite out of it. Lots of ler gai and ler bo.
But jolly ? Well, no, not percisely ; the larks, like the liquors, run light,
And a spree a lar Frongsay, though gassy, don't fill up my pewter—not quite.

There ain't enough body about it, no row-de-dow rollick and ramp.
The French don't seem up to perdoocing us cards of the jolly-dog-stamp.
They sits at the caffys and chatters, and tipples up tots weak as tea,
But a pot o' four-'arf and a frolic is things as you don't often see.

Fine streets, and no error, though, Charlie. Them

bullyvards bangs us to bits.
You might play cricket well in their squares, slog for

sixes, and run out your 'its.
That Place deller Concorde, for instance,—I'm blowed if

one doesn't feel lost,
And pine for a pub. in Cheapside, stout-and-mild and a

cut off the roast.

There's a deal too much finnick and fuss, byang IIossoo-

ing, and that sort o' thing.
You don't want your gassong—that's waiter—to speak

like a haffahle king;
Puts yer out, don't yer know. Now, our " yessir"

sounds proper, respeckful, and pat,
But a Frenchman 's all bows and bong jours, and he lives

with 'is 'and to 'is 'at.

A smart Concierge in a cap, with a heye full of mischief
and fun,

Seems pooty good goods for a rally, but, bless yer, it ain't
to be done,

I put on the rattle to rights in the style that's so taking
shay noo,

But they ain't got the 'ang of it, Chaelie,—it doesn't
come off, not a few.

Of course you carn't chaff cummy fo in a language you

haven't quite nailed;
But my style ought to do it, dear boy—it's the very fust

time as it's failed.
It's the fault of young Frenchmen, I fancy—they carn't

come the true rorty pal,
And yer see, when the feller ain't wide, why, what can

you expect from the gal ?

Howsomever, I picked up a chum, as was out on the

lonely like me,
And I think we astonished the natives, and showed 'em

our pattern o' spree.
'Ow they stared at our capers, dear boy ! 'ow we laughed

at their " Commongsf" and shrugs !
No. Parry's O.K., and no kid; but the Mossoos is most

on 'em Mugs.

" Fust himpressions ! " says you. Werry true, but I take

a cou of eel tidy quick.
I thought to find Parry a parrydisc ruled by the merry

Old Nick;

It's a City of Caffys, clean streets, open spaces, and spick-
and-span 'ouses,
And women without any bonnets, and workmen in dingy
. blue blouses:

No pubs, but long bullyvards, Charlie, all Rustyrongs,

tables, and trees;
With folks grubbin all over the place upon kickshaws

and claret and cheese.
But there ain't no 'ome feeling about 'em, these brasserie

cribs and wot not,
And for comfort, and fun, and good tipple, yer true

British bar bangs the lot.

I miss it, my pippin, I miss it; the baccy, the barney, the

beer,

The chumming, the chaff at the counter,—they do it so
different 'ere.

Still I'm going it nobby, dear boy, and you know there

are capers in Parry
That—well, mum's the word. More anon.

Toot a voo der bong wotsername,

'Arry.

"To What Base Uses."

While Smith and Jones were taking a walk down
Fleet Street, as suggested by Dr. Johnson, they discoursed
upon the new Criminal Code, Bankruptcy Act, the Re-
form of the Lunacy Laws, and various other things that
" are to be," and, meantime, continue " as they were."
Smith was from the country. Ouoth Smith to J ones, as
they arrived in Carey Street—" What is that large and
majestic building I behold ? A shop, I presume P "

"It is a shop," replied his companion; "or willlbo,
if it is ever finished."

" To whom does it belong ? "

"To the leading firm of law-publishers."

'' And what will they sell there ? "

" Law-stationary."

vol. lxxvii.

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