Gawstruth! Fer us life's got no joy to spare,
We're short uv bird-songs, "soarin' clear an' pure."
A bloke is 'ardly orf the bottle there
Before 'e's in the jug—a bird fer sure.
So 'oo am I to say no blokes shall sing
Jist 'ow 'an where an' when sich blokes may choose?
She's got no lines to show, nor yet no ring.
Lor' bli'me! I ain't married to me Muse!
An', square an' all, to show there's no offence,
To show that in me 'eart true friendship lies,
I gives free gratis, an' wivout ixpense,
A few igzamples, jist to put 'em wise.
First, choose some swingin' metre, sich as this,
That Omar used—per Fitz—to boost the wine.
An' 'ere's a point true artists shouldn't miss :
Sling in a bit o' slang to ev'ry line.
An' when yer full o' them alternate rhymes—
As all the true push poits is at times—
Jist ring the changes, as I'm doin' now;
An' find ixcuse to say : "The bloomin' cow!"
