DOI Heft:
May 7, 1892
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17693#0226
May 7, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 217
'ARRY ON WHEELS.
Dear Charlie,—Spring's on us at last, and a proper
old April we 'ye 'ad,
Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday
makers feel mad.
Rum cove that old Clerk 0' the "Weather; seems some-
how to take a delight
In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out
of sheer spite.
"When we 're
fast with our
nose to the
grindstone, in
orfice or fac-
t'ry, or shop,
The sun bustiges
forth a rare
hat, till a fel-
ler feels fair
on the 'op;
But when Easter
or "Whitsun-
OTW\Hl\Wul)ri,i«»11 tide's >ndy,
» ,. T and outing sail
Our'Arry Laureate, round is in
train,
It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.
It's a orkud old universe, Charlie, most things go as
crooked as Z,
Feelosophers may think it out, 'Arry ain't got the 'eart,
or the 'ead;
But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust
laws, and no kid.
If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth
and no quid!
'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing
on wheels;
For I've took to the bicycle, yus,—and can show a good
many my 'eels.
You should see me lam into it, Charlie, along a smooth
bit of straight road,
And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheel-
ing, I'm blowed.
Larks fust and larks larst is my motter. Old Richard-
son's rumbo is rot.
Preachy-preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to
a sanit'ry pot; [scenery, and that,
But it isn't mere hexercise, Charlie, nor yet pooty
As '11 put 'Arry's legs on the pelt. No, yours truly is
not sech a flat.
Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good
'ealth, I've no doubt
That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere
turning about,
Upon planks 'stead 0' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling
as wheeling's 'ard work,
And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always
did shirk.
i\ain't one 0' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest
'ollered out, and a 'ump,
Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go
slap off their chump. [big silver mug.
You don't ketch me straining my 'eart till it cracks for a
No; 'Arry takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel
cosy and snug.
Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to
champion form.
And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the
Wheel-World by storm,
Went off like candle-snuff, Charlie, while stoopin' to
lace up 'is boot.
Let them go for that game as are mind to, here's one as
it certn'y won't soot.
But there's fun in it, Charlie, worked proper, you'd
'ardly emagine 'ow much,
if you ain't done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled
some dawdling old Dutch.
Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the
doddering old sort
As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it!
that makes art the sport!
'Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,
Ah! it give me what-for in my jints, and no end of a thundering thust;
I felt jest like a snake with skyattica doubling about on the loose,
As 'elpless as 'ot calf's-foot jelly, old man, and about as much use.
Now I don't like to look like a juggins, it's wot I carn't stand, s'elp my bob;
But you know I ain't heasy choked off, dear old pal, when 1 'm fair on the job.
So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall trees,
Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts. Oh, I tell yer 'twas " go as yer please."
They call it a "Park," and it's pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,
Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it's welting with rain ;
Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges live there,
And they didn't like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did / care.
When they wentured a mild remonstration, I chucked 'em a smart bit 0 lip,
With a big D or two—for the ladies—and wosn't they soon on the skip !
'Twos my own 'appy 'unting ground, Charlie, until I could fair feel my feet;
If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it '11 do you a treat.
I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don't run yer much risk,
And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk ;
And then came the barney, my bloater ! I jined 'arf a dozen prime pals,
And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh'lly the gals.
No Club, mate, for me ; that means money, and rules, sportsman form, and sech
muck.
I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to pot-luck.
A rush twelve-a-breast is a gamniock, twelve squeakers a going like one ;
But "rules 0' the road" dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and spile all the fun.
The " Charge o' the Light Brigade," Charlie ? "Well, mugs will keep spouting
it still;
But wot is it to me and my mates, treadles loose, and a-chargin' down 'ill ?
Dash, dust-clouds, wheel-whizz, whistles, squeakers, our 'owls, women's
shrieks, and men's swears!
Oh, I tell yer it's ' Ades let loose, or all Babel a busting down-stairs.
Ouiet slipping along in a line, like a blooming girl's school on the trot,
May suit the swell Club-men, my boy, but it isn't my form by a lot.
Don't I jest discumfuddle the donas, and bosh the old buffers as prowl
Along green country roads at their ease, till they 're scared by my squeak, or
my 'owl ?
My "alarm" ts a caution I tell yer; it sounds like some shrill old macaw,
Wot's bin blowed up with dynamite sudden ; it gives yer a twist in the jaw,
And a pain in the 'ed when you 'ear it. I laugh till I shake in my socks
When I turn it on sharp on old gurls and they jump like a Jack-in-the-box.
I give 'em Ta-ra-ra, I tell yer, and Boom-de-ray likewise, dear boy.
'Ev'n bless 'im as started that song, with that chorus,—a boon and a joy!
Wy, the way as the'werry words worrit respectables jest makes me bust;
When you chuck it 'em as you dash by, it riles wus than the row and the dust!
We lap up a rare lot of lotion, old man, in our spins out of town ;
Pace, dust and chyike make yer chalky, and don't we just ladle it down ?
And when I'm full up, and astride, with my shoulder well over the wheel,
And my knickerbocks pelting like pistons, I tell yer I make the thing squeal.
My form is chin close on the 'andle, my 'at set well back on my 'ed,
And my spine fairly }umped to it, Charlie, and then carn't I paint the town red?
They calLme "The Camel " for that, and my stomach-capas'ty for " wet."
Well, my motter is hease afore helegance. As for the liquor,—you bet!
There's a lot of old mivvies been writing long squeals to the Times about hus.
They call us " road-tyrants " and rowdies ; but, lor ! it's all fidgets and fuss.
I'd jest like to serumplicate some on 'em ; ain't got no heye for a lark,
/know 'em; they squawk if we scrummage, and squirm if we makes a remark.
If I spots pooty gurls when out cycling, I tips 'em the haffable nod;
Wy not ? If a gent carn't be civil without being scowled at, it's hodd.
Ah\ and some on 'em tumble, I tell yer, although they may look a mite shy ;
It is only the stuckuppy sort as consider it rude or fie-fie.
"We wos snaking along t'other day, reglar clump of hus—Bugglns and me,
Mlngo 'Iggins, and Billy Bolair, Sammy Snipe, and Toff Jones, and Mick
Shee ;
All the right rorty sort, and no flies ; when along comes a gurl on a 'orse.
Well, we spread hout, and started our squeakers, and gave 'er a rouser, in course.
'Orse shied, and backed into a 'edge, and it looked so remarkable rum,
That we couldn't 'elp doing a larf, though the gurl wos pertikler yum-yum;
We wos ready to 'elp, 'owsomever, when hup comes a swell, and he swore,
And—would you believe it, old pal P—went for Buggins, and give'im wot for ! !!
Nasty sperrit, old man ; nothink sportsmanlike, surely, about sech a haet!
Them's the sort as|eomplains of hus Cyclists, mere crackpots as ain't got no tact.
We all did a guy like greased lightning ; you can when you 're once on your
wheel—
Stout bobbies carn't run down a " Safety," and gurls can do nothink but squeal.
That's where Wheelin' gives yer the pull! Still it's beastly to think a fine sport
And a smart lot of hathleets like hus must be kiboshed by mugs of that sort.
All boko ! dear boy, those Times letters! I mean the new barney to carry,
As long as the Slops and the Beaks keep their meddlesome mawleys orf
'Arry.
vol cn.
V
'ARRY ON WHEELS.
Dear Charlie,—Spring's on us at last, and a proper
old April we 'ye 'ad,
Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday
makers feel mad.
Rum cove that old Clerk 0' the "Weather; seems some-
how to take a delight
In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out
of sheer spite.
"When we 're
fast with our
nose to the
grindstone, in
orfice or fac-
t'ry, or shop,
The sun bustiges
forth a rare
hat, till a fel-
ler feels fair
on the 'op;
But when Easter
or "Whitsun-
OTW\Hl\Wul)ri,i«»11 tide's >ndy,
» ,. T and outing sail
Our'Arry Laureate, round is in
train,
It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.
It's a orkud old universe, Charlie, most things go as
crooked as Z,
Feelosophers may think it out, 'Arry ain't got the 'eart,
or the 'ead;
But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust
laws, and no kid.
If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth
and no quid!
'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing
on wheels;
For I've took to the bicycle, yus,—and can show a good
many my 'eels.
You should see me lam into it, Charlie, along a smooth
bit of straight road,
And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheel-
ing, I'm blowed.
Larks fust and larks larst is my motter. Old Richard-
son's rumbo is rot.
Preachy-preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to
a sanit'ry pot; [scenery, and that,
But it isn't mere hexercise, Charlie, nor yet pooty
As '11 put 'Arry's legs on the pelt. No, yours truly is
not sech a flat.
Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good
'ealth, I've no doubt
That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere
turning about,
Upon planks 'stead 0' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling
as wheeling's 'ard work,
And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always
did shirk.
i\ain't one 0' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest
'ollered out, and a 'ump,
Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go
slap off their chump. [big silver mug.
You don't ketch me straining my 'eart till it cracks for a
No; 'Arry takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel
cosy and snug.
Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to
champion form.
And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the
Wheel-World by storm,
Went off like candle-snuff, Charlie, while stoopin' to
lace up 'is boot.
Let them go for that game as are mind to, here's one as
it certn'y won't soot.
But there's fun in it, Charlie, worked proper, you'd
'ardly emagine 'ow much,
if you ain't done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled
some dawdling old Dutch.
Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the
doddering old sort
As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it!
that makes art the sport!
'Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,
Ah! it give me what-for in my jints, and no end of a thundering thust;
I felt jest like a snake with skyattica doubling about on the loose,
As 'elpless as 'ot calf's-foot jelly, old man, and about as much use.
Now I don't like to look like a juggins, it's wot I carn't stand, s'elp my bob;
But you know I ain't heasy choked off, dear old pal, when 1 'm fair on the job.
So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall trees,
Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts. Oh, I tell yer 'twas " go as yer please."
They call it a "Park," and it's pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,
Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it's welting with rain ;
Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges live there,
And they didn't like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did / care.
When they wentured a mild remonstration, I chucked 'em a smart bit 0 lip,
With a big D or two—for the ladies—and wosn't they soon on the skip !
'Twos my own 'appy 'unting ground, Charlie, until I could fair feel my feet;
If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it '11 do you a treat.
I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don't run yer much risk,
And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk ;
And then came the barney, my bloater ! I jined 'arf a dozen prime pals,
And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh'lly the gals.
No Club, mate, for me ; that means money, and rules, sportsman form, and sech
muck.
I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to pot-luck.
A rush twelve-a-breast is a gamniock, twelve squeakers a going like one ;
But "rules 0' the road" dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and spile all the fun.
The " Charge o' the Light Brigade," Charlie ? "Well, mugs will keep spouting
it still;
But wot is it to me and my mates, treadles loose, and a-chargin' down 'ill ?
Dash, dust-clouds, wheel-whizz, whistles, squeakers, our 'owls, women's
shrieks, and men's swears!
Oh, I tell yer it's ' Ades let loose, or all Babel a busting down-stairs.
Ouiet slipping along in a line, like a blooming girl's school on the trot,
May suit the swell Club-men, my boy, but it isn't my form by a lot.
Don't I jest discumfuddle the donas, and bosh the old buffers as prowl
Along green country roads at their ease, till they 're scared by my squeak, or
my 'owl ?
My "alarm" ts a caution I tell yer; it sounds like some shrill old macaw,
Wot's bin blowed up with dynamite sudden ; it gives yer a twist in the jaw,
And a pain in the 'ed when you 'ear it. I laugh till I shake in my socks
When I turn it on sharp on old gurls and they jump like a Jack-in-the-box.
I give 'em Ta-ra-ra, I tell yer, and Boom-de-ray likewise, dear boy.
'Ev'n bless 'im as started that song, with that chorus,—a boon and a joy!
Wy, the way as the'werry words worrit respectables jest makes me bust;
When you chuck it 'em as you dash by, it riles wus than the row and the dust!
We lap up a rare lot of lotion, old man, in our spins out of town ;
Pace, dust and chyike make yer chalky, and don't we just ladle it down ?
And when I'm full up, and astride, with my shoulder well over the wheel,
And my knickerbocks pelting like pistons, I tell yer I make the thing squeal.
My form is chin close on the 'andle, my 'at set well back on my 'ed,
And my spine fairly }umped to it, Charlie, and then carn't I paint the town red?
They calLme "The Camel " for that, and my stomach-capas'ty for " wet."
Well, my motter is hease afore helegance. As for the liquor,—you bet!
There's a lot of old mivvies been writing long squeals to the Times about hus.
They call us " road-tyrants " and rowdies ; but, lor ! it's all fidgets and fuss.
I'd jest like to serumplicate some on 'em ; ain't got no heye for a lark,
/know 'em; they squawk if we scrummage, and squirm if we makes a remark.
If I spots pooty gurls when out cycling, I tips 'em the haffable nod;
Wy not ? If a gent carn't be civil without being scowled at, it's hodd.
Ah\ and some on 'em tumble, I tell yer, although they may look a mite shy ;
It is only the stuckuppy sort as consider it rude or fie-fie.
"We wos snaking along t'other day, reglar clump of hus—Bugglns and me,
Mlngo 'Iggins, and Billy Bolair, Sammy Snipe, and Toff Jones, and Mick
Shee ;
All the right rorty sort, and no flies ; when along comes a gurl on a 'orse.
Well, we spread hout, and started our squeakers, and gave 'er a rouser, in course.
'Orse shied, and backed into a 'edge, and it looked so remarkable rum,
That we couldn't 'elp doing a larf, though the gurl wos pertikler yum-yum;
We wos ready to 'elp, 'owsomever, when hup comes a swell, and he swore,
And—would you believe it, old pal P—went for Buggins, and give'im wot for ! !!
Nasty sperrit, old man ; nothink sportsmanlike, surely, about sech a haet!
Them's the sort as|eomplains of hus Cyclists, mere crackpots as ain't got no tact.
We all did a guy like greased lightning ; you can when you 're once on your
wheel—
Stout bobbies carn't run down a " Safety," and gurls can do nothink but squeal.
That's where Wheelin' gives yer the pull! Still it's beastly to think a fine sport
And a smart lot of hathleets like hus must be kiboshed by mugs of that sort.
All boko ! dear boy, those Times letters! I mean the new barney to carry,
As long as the Slops and the Beaks keep their meddlesome mawleys orf
'Arry.
vol cn.
V