find
Is watching the poor sulphur-swiggers, a-gargling and going it
blind.
Oh, the sniffs and sour faces, old fellow, the shudders and
shivers, and sighs;
The white lips a-working like rabbits', the sheepish blue-funk in
their eyes!

Old Pump Room's a hoctygon building, rum blend like of chapel and
bar,
With a big stained-glass winder one side, hallygorical subject! So
far
As I've yet made it out, it's a hangel a-stirring up somethink
like suds.
"A-troubling the waters," I 'eard from a party in clerical duds.

You arsk, like you do at a bar, for the speeches of lotion you want.
_Some_ say; you git used to the flaviour, and _like it_! Bet long
hodds _I_ shan't.
I've sampled the lot, my dear CHARLIE, Strong Sulphur and Mild,
Cold _and_ 'Ot;
And all I can say is, the jossers who say it ain't beastly talk rot.

You jest fox their faces! They enters, looks round, gives a shy
sort of sniff,
Seem to contemplate doing a guy, brace their legs, keep their
hupper lips stiff;
Take their tickets, walk up to the counter, assumin' a sham sort
of bounce,
And ask, shame-faced like, for their gargle, 'as p'r'aps is a 'ot