Punch (93.1887)

October 15, 1887.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

169

That's jestVot " the Masses " is made for :rJhem asses I
'ARRY ON OCHRE. calls'em, old man,

Same letters, same thing, dontoher know. Yus, Socierty's

built on this plan.
Many littles makes lots, that's the maxim; and he is the
snide 'un, no doubt, [mugs who 're about.

Who can squeeze his lot out of the littles of half the poor

Twig, Charlie, old twister ? Ter sweaters, yer Giant

Purviders, and such
Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee,

that's the touch !
"Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few
as the bees, [little honey to squeeze.

Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed

The honey—or money—wants massing, that's jest wot

the Masses can do—
And the " Classes," my boy, are the picked, 'uns, as

know 'ow to put on the screw.
That's the doctrine of "Dannel the Dosser," a broken-
down toil, as I know;
And if Dannel ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. That's
ow yer big money-piles grow.

Rum party the Dosser is, Chablie—I can't make him

out, mate, not quite.
Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's

his mark. His delight
Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls
gammon—

That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf
his gab is sheer mammon.

He eyes me in seek- a rum style, Chablie, sort of arf

smile and arf sneer,
Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground

—when he's well on the beer.
A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game
to stand Sam, [like a lamb.

For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,—a lay as he stands

" Tou ought to be rich, my young Cloten! " sez he. It's

a part of his game
To call me nicknames out of Shahspeare, and so on ; but

" Wot's in a name ? "
"My brain and your 'eart now together, would make

a rare Dives," says " Dosser."
I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if he
does, poor old josser !

'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses

talk about " Thrift,"
Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't

'ave their dashed brains at a gift.
Save, hay,—out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch

me in that shape.
You must swag in this world to get rich ; if yer carn't,
it's no bottles to scrape.

The Turf or the Stock Exchange, Chablie, would suit

me, I'd trust to my luck,
And my leariness, not to get plucked like that

silly young Ailesbury duck,
Wot's life without sport ? Wy, like billiards without
e'er a bet or a fluke, [be a Dook.

And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie—that is if I carn't

In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to double
the part,

As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a
start.

With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould

take waggons to carry.
The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the
stone-brokers is ,.

'Abey.

Deab Chaelie,
Hoctobee, my
'arty, and'Abet,
wusluck! 'sback
in town,
Where it's all git-
ting messy and
misty; the
boollyvard trees
is all brown,

Them as ainVgone as yaller as mustard. I do 'ate the Autumn, dear boy,
When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or enjoy.

Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo
Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to blue.
Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer ; no Savings Bank lay about her.
Yah! _ Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they purr.

Lor',[to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal!
Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!—oh, well, jigger that gal!
Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, Chaelie, so 'elp me, she did.
Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid.

Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, Chaelie ! The yaller god rules us all round.
Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be found.
If you 'aven't the ha'pence you' re nothink ; bang out of it, slap up a tree.
That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree.

They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"—old Collars is red on that rot!—
There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not.
The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot you please.
It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't wuth a sneeze.

O'Chaelie, I wish I'd got millions! I ought to be rich, and no kid.
I feel I wos made for it, Chaelie. To watch every bloomin' arf quid,
Like a pup at a rat 'ole is beastly. Some stingy 'uns carn't go the pace,
But I know I should turn out a flyer, and so ought to be in the race.

Oh, it ain't every juggins, I tell yer, who's built for the bullion, dear boy!
You must know the snide game that's called " Grab," you must know what it
- means to" enjoy." ,
■"either one without tother's much use, but the true Ochre Kings are the chaps
As^can squeeze millions out of "the Masses." They win in life's game, mate,
by laps.

Tuening to the Leet.—At a recent meetino- 0f the
Court of Common Council (in the teeth of a strong op-
position of some of the members of the Board) it was
decided to exclude strangers and the Press during a part
of the proceedings. The matter under secret considera-
tion, it is said, was the appointment by the Recorder of
the Assistant-Judge of the Mayor's Court. It is ru-
moured that, acting on the opinion of Mr. R. S. Weight,
(with him the Attorney-General) the Court decided not
to connrm that appointment. But why all this mystery ?
What had the Councillors to fearr1 Obviously, they
could be doing nothing wrong if they were sustained by
Weight !

vol. xcih.