Twig, CHARLIE, old twister? Yer sweaters, yer Giant Purviders, and such Is all on that lay. Many buds, and one big bloated Bee, that's the touch! Wy, if bees was as many as blossoms, or blossoms as few as the bees, Him as nicked a whole hive to hisself would find dashed little honey to squeeze. The honey--or money--wants _massing_, that's jest wot the Masses can do-- And the "Classes," my boy, are the picked 'uns, as know 'ow to put on the screw. That's the doctrine of "DANNEL the Dosser," a broken-down toff, as I know; And if DANNEL ain't right, I'm a Dutchman. _That's_ ow yer big money-piles grow. Rum party the Dosser is, CHARLIE--I can't make him out, mate, not quite. Laps beer, when he can, like a bricky, though brandy's his mark. His delight Is to patter to me about Swelldom, Socierty, wot he calls gammon-- That's Ochre, dear boy, dontcher know. I suppose arf his gab is sheer mammon. He eyes me in sech a rum style, CHARLIE, sort of arf smile and arf sneer, Though he owns I'm a Dasher right down to the ground--when he's well on the beer. A pot and a pipe always dror him, and I'm always game to stand Sam, For his patter's A1, and I pump 'im,--a lay as he stands like a lamb. "You _ought_ to be rich, my young Cloten!" sez he. It's a part of his game To call me nicknames out of _Shakspeare_, and so on; but "Wot's in a name?" "My brain and your 'eart now together, would make a rare Dives," says "Dosser." I don't always know wot he means, and I doubt if _he_ does, poor old josser! 'Owsomever, the Ochre's my toppic. Some jugginses talk about "Thrift," Penny Savings' Bank bosh, and that stuff. Wouldn't 'ave their dashed brains at a gift. _Save_, hay,--out of two quid a week! No, it doesn't fetch me in that shape. You must _swag_ in this world to get rich; if yer carn't, it's no bottles to _scrape_. The Turf or the Stock Exchange, CHARLIE, would suit me, I'd trust to my luck, And my leariness, _not_ to get plucked like that silly young Ailesbury duck, Wot's life without sport? Wy, like billiards without e'er a bet or a fluke, And that's wy I'd be a Swell Bookie--that is if I carn't be a Dook. In fact if I 'ad my own chice, I should jest like to _double the part_, As I fancy a few on 'em do. Oh, Jemimer! jest give me a start. With a 'undered or two, and the Ochre I'd pile 'twould take waggons to carry. The world loses larks, mate, you bet, when among the stone-brokers is 'ARRY. * * * * *