Down with the West I go; my pen
Is bound to "fetch" the Upper Ten,
With the aid of some "log-rolling," my "distinction" much extolling.
Smart little scribes from near and far
Say, with a sniff, "O here's a Star!"
DICKENS on fine souls doth jar, THACKERAY is too dry,
But _his_ pessimistic air, rich and rare,
Subtle, fair,
Makes Philistia to stare, in a scare,
And to blare;
Whilst true Critics _débonnaire_, who are rare,
With a _flaire_,
For true humour,
Swell of rumour
The gregarious cry.

_CHORUS._

All of you come along with me!
You'll have a rare new fair new spree!
Paradox with "sniff" united, Poor Humanity snubbed and slighted.
Humour's new _cuvée_, extra-dry.
I-twaddley--high-dry-high-toned I!
Come and worship the pessimist "I"
For _that's_ all right!

After I've taken the toffish Town,
A second edition, at Half-a-crown,
Seeks the suffrages--(and _money_, for on Swelldom you'll go "stoney")--