Pooty scenery's all very proper, but glaciers and snow-peaks do pall,
And as to yer bloomin' Black Forests, the _Bor der Boolong_ beats 'em
all.

After all, there is something quite 'ome-like in Parry--so leastways I
think;
It's a place where you don't seem afraid to larf 'arty, or tip gals the
wink;
Sort o' _san janey_ feeling about it, my pippin'--you know wot I mean.
You don't feel _too_ fur from old Fleet Street, steaks, "bitter," and
"_God Save the Queen!_"

When your Britisher travels, he travels, but likes to be Britisher still;
With his _Times_ and his "tub" he is 'appy; without 'em he's apt to feel
ill.
Wy, when I was last year in Parry, I went for a Bullyvard crawl
One night arter supper, when who should I spot but my pal BOBBY BALL.

He wos doin' the gay at a Caffy, was BOB, _petty vair_, and all that,
Togged up to the nines with his claw-hammer, cuff-shooters, gloves, and
crush-hat.
"Wot cheer, BOBBY, old buster!" I bellered; and up from his paper he
looks.
Ah! and didn't we 'ave a rare night on it, CHARLIE! We both know _our_
books.

But wot do you think BOB was reading? _The Times_! I could twig it at
once.
He might 'ave 'ung on to _Gil Blars_, or the _Figgero_,--BOB ain't a
dunce--