'em now.

You start a smart game, or a paying one--something as knocks 'em, dear
boy,
No matter, mate, whether it's mustard, or rhymes, or a sixpenny toy;
They'll be arter you, nick over nozzle, the smuggers of notions and nips,
For the mugs is as 'ungry for wrinkles as broken-down bookies for tips.

Look at DICKENS, dear boy, and Lord TENNYSON--ain't they bin copied all
round?
Wy, I'm told some as liked ALFRED's verses at fust, is now sick of the
sound;
All along o' the parrots, my pippin. Ah, that's jest the wust o' sech
fakes!
People puke at the shams till they think the originals ain't no great
shakes.

'Tain't fair, CHARLIE, not by a jugful, but anger's all fiddle-de-dee;
They may copy my style till all's blue, but they won't discombobulate me.
Names and metres is anyone's props; but of one thing they don't get the
'ang;
They ain't fly to good patter, old pal, they ain't copped the straight
griffin on slang.

'Tisn't grammar and spellin' makes patter, nor yet snips and snaps of
snide talk.
You may cut a moke out o' pitch-pine, mate, and paint it, but can't make
it walk.
You may chuck a whole Slang Dixionary by chunks in a stodge-pot of chat,
But if 'tisn't _alive_, 'tain't chin-music, but kibosh, and corpsey at