Rum cove that old Clerk o' the Weather; seems somehow to take a
delight
In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer
spite.
When we're fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or
fact'ry, or shop,
The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the
'op;
But when Easter or Whitsuntide's 'andy, and outings all round is
in train,
It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.
It's a orkud old universe, CHARLIE, most things go as crooked as Z.
Feelosophers _may_ think it out, 'ARRY ain't got the 'eart, or the
'ead;
But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust laws, and
no kid.
If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth and
_no_ quid!
'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing--on wheels;
For I've took to the bicycle, yus,--and can show a good many my
'eels.
You should see me lam into it, CHARLIE, along a smooth bit of
straight road,
And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheeling, I'm
blowed.
Larks fust and larks larst is _my_ motter. Old RICHARDSON's rumbo
is rot.
Preachy-preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to a sanit'ry
pot;
But it isn't mere hexercise, CHARLIE, nor yet pooty scenery, and
that,
As'll put 'ARRY's legs on the pelt.
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