_Our_ 'osses,
_our_ jockeys, _and_ our bookies has bin the making of French
Sport,--and werrv nice little pickings there's bin out of it take it
all round. Wot'll _Ler Hig Life_, and Hart, and Leagues o' Patriots,
and miles o' bullyvards, and COOK's Tourists and Awful Towers do
for Parry without _hus_, I wonder? We shall _see_! Ah, Madame _lar
Republick_, maybe you'll be sorry, you and your bullyin' jondarms,
for chucking o' me afore you're through. As MAT MOPUS put it:--
It was all werry well to dissemble yer love,
But wy did yer kick me down-stairs?
Chucked it is, though, and I shall probably see yer next week, BOB.
Thanks be, the Flat Season's at 'and! Arter all, there's no place
like 'ome! No!--
'Mid _Boises_ and Bullyvards tho' we may roam,
Be it hever so foggy, there's no place _like_ 'ome;
A smile from the Swells seems to 'allow sport there,
Wich, look where you will, isn't met with elsewhere.
'Ome, 'ome, Sweet, sweet 'ome,
Be it hever so fog-bound, there's no place like 'ome!
A hexile from Parry, I'm off o'er the main;
Ah! give me my native Newmarkit again;
The mugs, smiling sweetly, wot come at my bawl,
Give me these, and the "pieces," far dearer than all.
'Ome, 'ome,
Sweet, sweet 'ome,
With RAIKES[1], LOWTHER, CHAPLIN, there's no place like 'ome.
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