This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and bands on the "Stray" (Big lumpy old field in a 'ole, wich if properly managed might pay.) Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black, With a orful tremoler, my pippin!--yus, these are the pick of the pack. Bit sick of "_Ta-ra-ra_" and "_Knocked 'em_;" "_Carissimar_" gives me the 'ump, For I 'ear it some six times per morning; and then there's a footy old pump Blows staggery toons on a post-'orn for full arf a-hour each day, To muster the mugs for a coach-drive. My heye and a bandbox, it's gay! At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate lot, For even the Spa's a bit samesome for six times a week when it's 'ot; Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts, and such; Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny touch. But even yer Fancy Dress Balls, and yer lectures by ANNIE BESANT, All about Hastral Bodies and Hether, seems not always _quite_ wot yer want To wile away time arter dinner. So thanks to that gent--six-foot-four!-- Who fair cuts the record as Droring-Room M.C.--of course _hammytoor_. Then we've conjurors, worblers, phrenologists! One 'ad a go at _my_ chump. 'E touzled my 'air up tremenjus, and said I'd no hend of a bump Of somethink he called "Happrybativeness." Feller meant well, I suppose, But I didn't quite relish his smile, nor his rummy remarks on my nose. When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a blush--rose in bloom, 'As 'er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the whole room, 'Tisn't nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening 'is wit On your nob, and a rumpling your 'air till it's like a birch-broom in a fit! One caper we 'ad, on the lawn, wos a spree and no error, old man. They call it a "Soap-Bubble Tournyment." Soapsuds, a pipe, and a fan, Four six--foot posts stuck in the ground with a tape run around--them's the "props," And lawn-tennis ain't in it for larks. Oh, the ladies did larf, though tip-tops! Bit sniffy fust off. "Oh!" sez they, "wot a most _hintellectual_ game!" But I noticed that them as sneered most wos most anxious to win, all the same, The gent he stands slap in the middle, and tries to blow bubbles like fun, Wich his pardner fans over the tape; don't it jest keep the girls on the run!