With Yours Truly, this time, I essure you. I fancied as
Tot'nam-Court Road
Would he trying its 'and on my tombstone afore the green corn wos
full growed.

_Bad_, CHARLIE? You bet! 'Twas screwmatics and liver, old Pill-box
declared.
Knocked me slap orf my perch, fair 'eels uppards. I tell you I
felt a bit scared,
And it left me a yaller-skinned skelinton, weak, and, wot's wus,
stoney-broke.
If it hadn't a bin for my nunky, your pal might have jest done a
croak.

Uncle NOBBS, a Cat's-butcher at Clapton, who's bin in luck's way,
and struck ile,
Is dead nuts on Yours Truly. Old josser, and grumpy, but _he_'s
made his pile.
Saw me settin' about in the garden, jest like a old saffron-gill'd
ghost
A-waiting for cock-crow to 'ook it, and hanxious to 'ear it--a'most.

Sez he, "Wy, the boy is a bone-bag! Wot's that? Converlescent? Oh,
fudge!
He's a slipping his cable, and drifting out sea-wards, if _I_'m
any judge.
I was ditto some twenty year back, BOB, and 'Arrygate fust set
_me_ up.
Wot saved the old dog, brother ROBERT, may probably suit the young
pup.