Xxvii

So, this time I whistle, not sing at all, My story, the largess I fling at all And every the rough there whose aubade Did its best to amuse me,--nor so bad! Take my thanks, pick up largess, and scamper Off free, ere your mirth gets a damper! You 've Monday, your one day, your fun-day, While mine is a year that 's all Sunday. I 've seen you, times--who knows how many?-- Dance in here, strike up, play the zany, Make mouths at the Tenant, hoot warning You 'll find him decamped next May-morning; Then scuttle away, glad to 'scape hence With--kicks? no, but laughter and ha'pence! Mine 's freehold, by grace of the grand Lord Who lets out the ground here,--my landlord: To him I pay quit-rent--devotion; Nor hence shall I budge, I 've a notion, Nay, here shall my whistling and singing Set all his street's echoes a-ringing Long after the last of your number Has ceased my front-court to encumber While, treading down rose and ranunculus, You Tommy-make-room-for-your-Uncle us! Troop, all of you--man or homunculus, Quick march! for Xanthippe, my housemaid, If once on your pates she a souse made With what, pan or pot, bowl or skoramis, First comes to her hand--things were more amiss! I would not for worlds be your place in-- Recipient of slops from the basin! You, Jack-in-the-Green, leaf-and-twiggishness Won't save a dry thread on your priggishness! While as for Quilp-Hop-o'-my-thumb there, Banjo-Byron that twangs the strum-strum there-- He 'll think as the pickle he curses, I 've discharged on his pate his own verses! "Dwarfs are saucy," says Dickens: so, sauced in Your own sauce, ...