Volume 108 — 'ARRY ON DERBY DAY.

Dear Charlie,—Are you going down? What a pooty blarmed world this 'as got, With its Chants, and its Anti-Sport Leagues, Local Hoption, and other dashed rot. Wot is Libberty comin' to, Charlie? 'Ere's 'Arry leg-lagged to his stool, Because his new Gaffer's a Hawkeite, as means a old-fossilised fool. The young 'un whose crib I succeeded to skinned the old bloke's petty cash In backing of wrong 'uns last year, as of course was most reckless and rash. But wy should I suffer along of it? Wy must he drop upon me Who wanted the Derby Day off—for cremating my poor uncle G.? Smelt a rat, the old Smelfungus did, and he lectured me, too, like old boots, Saying, Sport wos a Youpass tree, Charlie, and lying wos one of its fruits. He's a reglar front-row Anti-Gambler, a foe of Mirth, Music, and Malt, As would 'ave them lay Tattersall's level, and sow Hepsom race-course with salt. I'd arranged with a sporting greengrocer, and Boodle a smart local Bung, To tool down by road with a trotter. Us three would 'ave gone a rare splung, And I ain't missed a Derby this five year. And now all along of old hunks Instead of sweepstaking for winners, I'm making out bills for hair-trunks. It's beastly, dear boy, and no bottles. I landed on Ladas last year, And I've got such a cert. for to-day, as I couldn't go wrong on—no fear! Oh, laylocks and lemonade, Charlie! it do give yours truly the 'ump To think I must miss such a treat, all along of that precious old pump. The whizz o' the wheels makes mad music, old man, in this dingy old den, Where only the tick of the clock, and the scrape of my spiky steel pen, Measure hout the monotonous 'ours, while friend Bung and young Greens are agog. 'Midst the clatter and clink of the course, and the yelp of the old Derby Dog. I can smell the sweet whiff of their baccy, can taste the cold chickin' an' 'am, And see the fine salmon-hued sparkle of Bung's Jerryboam of Cham. I know Greens will do it to rights; I am sure a safe winner I'd spot, And my anti-gambling old Gaffer 'as spiled the whole splurge! Ain't it rot? Them plaguey philanterpists, Charlie, are turning the world upsidown! A cove musn't lap arf-a-pint, and a cove mustn't lay arf-a-crown! It's Weto all over the shop, Charlie! But wot I always remarks,— Philanterpy seems to shine mostly in Wetoing other folks larks! Well, I'm off down the road, mate, to Clapham, or wot not, to see 'em return. My cert. 'asn't come off, I 'ear, so I've dropped arf the screw as I earn By my six days of nose-to-the-grinstone of Gaffer. He'd larf if he knowed. But if it ain't his bloomin' fault for his sport-'ating 'umbug, I'm blowed. Sport? Sport's in the blood of a gentleman! Cocktails ain't fly to the fun Of landing a bit off a pal. Lor! a bet, on a 'orse or a gun, Mykes friendship and life reglar flavoursome! 'Ow could your true sportsman care For a drive through green lanes to the Derby without a small flutter when there? Too late for the flutter to-night, but the Clapham laburnums are out; There are plenty of pubs on that road, to the Wetoist's 'orror, no doubt. I am sure to meet lots of old pals, full of fun and good stuff as they'll carry, And if we don't 'ave Derby larks, spite o' Gaffers and Hawkes, I ain't, 'Arry.