My blazer was claret and mustard, my "stror" was a rainbow gone wrong! I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed midd-lingish strong. 'Emmy 'Opkins, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe, Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy blue. [Illustration] Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss Emmy; but that's only jest by the way, 'Arry ain't one to brag of _bong jour tunes_; but wot I wos wanting to say Is about this here "spiling the River" which snarlers set down to our sort. Bosh! Charlie, extreme Tommy rot! It's these sniffers as want to spile sport. Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the strictest Q. T. Their idea of the Thames being "spiled" by the smallest suggestion of spree, Wy, it's right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the dithreums it do. I mean going for them a rare bat, and I'm game to wire in till all's blue. Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace, Who would silence the gay "constant-screamer" and line the Thames banks with perlice; Who sneer about "'Arry at 'Enley," and sniff about "cads on the course," As though it meant "Satan in Eden"? I'll 'owl at sich oafs till I'm 'oarse! Scrap o' sandwich-greased paper 'll shock 'em, a ginger-beer bottle or "Bass," Wot 'appens to drop 'mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the grass, Makes 'em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan. Br-r-r-r! Wot old mivvies they are! Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart banjo-twang makes 'em jar. I'm toffy, you know, and no flies, Charlie; swim with the swells, and all that, But _I_'m blowed if this bunkum don't make me inclined to turn Radical rat. "Riparian rights," too! Oh scissors! They'd block the backwaters and broads, Because me and my pals likes a lark! Serve 'em right if old Burns busts their 'oards! Rum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters! There's Dannel the Dosser, old chap, As you've 'eard me elude to afore. Fair stone-broker, not wuth 'arf a rap-- Knows it's all Cooper's ducks with _him_, Charlie; won't run to a pint o' four 'arf, And yet he will slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans with his charf. Sez Dannel--and dash his darned cheek, Charlie!--"Monkeys like you"--meaning _Me_!-- "Give the latter-day Mammon his chance. Your idea of a lark or a spree Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, and Nastiness! Dives, who wants an excuse For exclusiveness, finds it in _you_, you contemptible coarse-cackling goose!