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")—­
Of the much derided Mob. 
Yes, the Proletariat “Bob”
(With the Guinea of the Nob) must aid the Sons of Light. 
Gath and Askelon, you see, can give Me,
L.S.D. 
All true Egoists love those pregnant letters
Mystic Three! 
Flout Philistia with great glee, fair and free,
But agree
To take its “tin,”
Though with a grin
Of pessimistic spite.

CHORUS.

All of you come along with me! 
’ARRY, who loves a fair old spree! 
“Mugwump” with fine morgue delighted, Cynic at “yearnestness” sore frighted! 
All of you come my “tap” to try! 
I-twaddley-high-dry-high-toned I! 
Come along, boys, Buy!  Buy!  Buy! 
And I’m all right!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE HOME AND THE OPEN SPACE.

Bumble (loq.). “WOT, GRUMBLE AT BEING EWICTED, AND FOR THE PUBLIC GOOD?  NOW, I CALLS THAT INGRATITOOD!  WY, WE’RE A-GOING TO MAKE THIS INTO A PEOPLE’S PLEASURE-GROUND, WE ARE!!!”]

* * * * *

JIM’S JOTTINGS.

NO. 1.—­DOWN OUR COURT.

(In which Jim Juniper, better known as “Ginger Jimmy,” discourses of Homes and Open Spaces, &c., and, puts a practical problem to the new “Public Health, and Housing Committee of the London County Council.”)

  My name is GINGER JIMMY, and I live, when I’m to hum,
  In Rats Rents, the kind o’ nay’brood wot the Swells now calls a Slum. 
  I’m a bit thick in the clear, like, and don’t quite know wot they mean,
  But I guess it isn’t mansions, and I’m sure it isn’t clean.

  They are always on the job now about Slums, and they do say
  They are going to clear our Court out on the suddent some fine day. 
  Whether it’s roads, or railways, or hotels, blowed if I know;
  Only ’ope they’ll give us notice, and some place where we can go.

  ’One is ’ome, if but a dungheap; if you’re pitchforked out of that,
  And turned loose in chilly London on the scoop, like a stray cat,
  With yer bits o’ sticks permiskus in a barrer or a truck,
  I can tell yer you feels lost like, and fair down upon yer luck.

  Heviction?  When you’re stoney-broke, your dubs all hup the spout,
  And you’ve nix to raise the rent on, I suppose you must turn hout;
  ‘Cos without them “rights o’ proputty” no country couldn’t jog;
  But that brings a cove small comfort when ’e’s ’ouseless, in a fog!

  I ‘ave knocked about a middlin’ little bit, you bet I ’ave,
  And I ain’t what Barber BIDDLECOMBE would call “a heasy shave”;
  But these Sanitary codgers give me beans, and no mistake. 
  I am fly to most all capers, but don’t tumble to their fake.