Sort o' cosy romanticky feeling a-paddling along them canals,
With the manderlines twangling all round, and the larf of the
gayest of gals
Gurgling up through the Hightalian hair--though it do 'ave a
cockneyfied sniff,--
Wy it's better than spooning at Marlow with MOLLY MOLLOY in a skiff.
I felt like Lord BYRON, I tell yer; I stretched myself, orty-like,
hout,
And wished it could go on all night, wich my pardner did ditto, no
doubt.
Modern Venice in minichure, CHARLIE, ain't really so dusty, you bet;
I wos quite a Bassanio in breeks, and I ain't lost the twang of it
yet.
_My_ Portia wos POLLY MARIA; she tipped me her name fair and free;
And a pootier young mossel o' muslin, I never 'ad perch on _my_
knee.
No side on 'er, nothink lowlived, CHARLIE, ladylike down to the
ground,
I called 'er my fair "Bride of Venice." In fact, we wos 'appy all
round.
She said _I_ wos _'er_ form to a hounce, and if anyone looked more
O.K.,
In a nobby Gondoler than me, well that chap 'adn't travelled _'er_
way;
Wich wos Barnsbury Park--so she whispered, with _sech_ a sly
giggle, dear boy!
I sez "Bully for IMRE KIRALFY! His Show is a thing to henjoy!"
And so it is, CHARLIE, old hoyster.
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