He'd a mash at Chermooney--neat parcel enough, though in course not _my_ style; Couldn't patter her lingo--wus luck!--but I _could_ do the lardy, and smile; And that Merry Swiss Boy got so jealous, along o' some capers o' mine, That I'm sure, if he'd twigged arf a chance, he'd a chucked me slap into the Rhine. Then I tried Shammy-hunting, old pal, but I didn't make much of a bag, Stalking curly-'orned goats in a country all precipice, hice-hill, and crag, Might suit Mister MANFRED, it may be--he didn't seem nuts on his life; But give _me_ rabbit-potting in Devon, where rocks is not edged like a knife. 'Ad a try arter Idlewise, too--sort o' fluffy-leaved, snow-coloured flower-- 'All the mugs seem to set heaps o' store by--I sent a bit on to BELL BOWER. Though _she_ would prefer a camelia. BELL calls all them forren gals "cats"; Wonder what she'd ha' said to see _me_ spooning round 'midst short skirts and longplaits! They'd a bit of a Buy-a-broom flaviour, and seemed a mite wooden to kiss; But a gal's a gal all the world hover. In Switzerland, 'ARRY, is Swiss. Yus, the country of Shallys and Shammys is jest a bit trying, no doubt; But there's larks to be 'ad near Mong Blong, if a party knows what he's about. 'Ad enough on it arter a fort-nit, though. Scenery's all mighty fine, But too much of yer Halpine Club bizness is boko, and not in _my_ line. I remember them Caffys, dear boy, _Roo der Caire_ and the Tower, so, thinks I, Slippin' 'ome I'll take France on the way, and go in for a bit of a fly. I done Parry a treat, mate, this time. 'Ad a ride in the Bor der Boolong; You may see, by the sketch I've inclosed, as I came out perticular strong. It is honly hus English _can_ ride. Frogs ain't in it _ah shovel_, yer know. They in fack always fails in _Ler Sport_, though they gives BULL a lead at _Ler Bo!_ _L'Horloge_ ain't arf bad. Snakes! _sich_ voices! The cackle and gag, too, fust-rate; My Parisian pal 'elped me out, but my larf was sometimes a bit late, And so flummoxed the Frenchies a few; one old chap in blue blouse and cropped hair Must ha' thought me a walking conundrum, to judge by his thunderstruck stare. I was togged in stror 'at and striped flannels; I'd 'ad the straight tip from a chum; I cried, "Beast!"--that's the French for Hangore, quite O. K., though I own it sounds rum, I gave mouth to the _Pa-ta-ta_ chorus, I slapped the Garsong on the back; And, sez I, "_Say ler_ jolliest lark, _que jay voo poor kelk tom_, that's a fack!" [Illustration: 'ARRY ON HORSEBACK.]