DIFFERENCES.

Different men have different ways, Different crooks have different lays, Different girls wear different stays. It’s just according to how you’re built Whether you sing a dirge, or lilt, Laugh, or cry, when the milk is spilt. Different dogs have different yaps, Different tarts have different chaps, Different bees fill different caps. The bloke who missed is a carper—hence We find him sitting astride a fence, Cursing like hell as a recompense. Different hounds have different bays, Different nags have different neighs, Different priests have different prays. Who’d have a world that was uniform Timing its pulse to a damning norm? Give me the varying calm and storm. Different hooks have different eyes, Different cooks make different pies, Different stamps have different dies. Little it matters, my friend! to you, Though arms are clinging, or hearts are true, Or gold be clotted around the shoe. Different grocers use different sand— That is the game that you understand! Here is a genuine, good right hand. Bring me a tangle of fairish dope To widen a rhymer’s mental scope, And I’ll write an ode to a bar of soap!

Awake! the Dawn is breaking rosy red; The Flies their matin Hymns sing round your Head— And here you’ve roosted on the Kerb all night, And never paid a Stiver for your Bed. Last Eve, no doubt, when primed with Beer and Wine, The World at large was all your Ruby Mine; But if you had to face the Beak to-day, It’s odds you couldn’t pay a Dollar Fine. Ah, then Life wore an amber-tinted Hue, To dizzy Heights your hop-fed Fancy flew; But now, alas! to damp a Soul of Clay You’ll have, perforce, to try a weaker Brew. Search well again! Perhaps some vagrant Sprat Lies hid within the Lining of your Hat; Or if a Thrummer, you’ve an even chance— A hungry Bung will often come at that. And, ah! see yonder open tap-room Door— If Fate be kind, old chap! maybe you’ll score; And if a foaming Pot materialise, Soak up the Juice, and boldly ask for more. Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent Shanty and Pub, on gratis Beer intent; But I (unlucky wayfarer) was oft Shot out by the same Door that in I went. And that perverted soul we call the Bung, Whose Moods, in turn, are praised or cursed or sung— I’ve often wondered in my Heart, why he Remains uncanonised—or else unhung. From some, indeed, the Milk of Kindness flows: Another Churl the pointed Insult throws— But when He cops a Oner on the Beak, He knows about it all—He Knows—HE KNOWS! But come! Let’s tap this caravanserai! I hold a Bob, in case the Kite won’t fly; But ask not how it haps—like Life and Death I know not How, nor When, nor Whence, nor Why.