(By "Hansom Jack.")

["Gentlemen, the way to see London is from the top of a 'bus—from the top of a 'bus, gentlemen!"—Mr. Gladstone to American Visitors.]

No. VII.—'BUSSES, BILKS, AND BOOSYS.

Top of a 'bus! Well, I've nothing to say against knifeboards or garden-seats, quite the contrairy.
Looked at as look-outs on London itself, as a city, they're easy, commanding, and airy.
G. O. M. hit it in once to those Yankees. But still, if you'd view London life, as a wholer,
Not mere bricks and mortar and lamp-posts, I'll back what cute Benjamin D. called the London Gondoler.
I've drove the Grand Old One, though 'e's such a walker 'e don't give the wheels so much work as did Dizzy.
But I'd like to stick 'im some hours on my perch with my 'ed at 'is elber. Ah, then we'd be busy.
The 'bus 'as the pull of us one way, you see; our fares can't git mounting the roof; they're insiders!
But Cabby looks inside and out, and that way gits the bulge on the rest of the drivers and riders.
Moresomeover the 'busses and trams keep the main, whilst we 'Ansoms can take all the short-cuts and bye-ways;
And when you know sububs and slums, you're aware London life don't all run in the big stream of 'ighways.
Its creeks and its backwaters, ditches and dykes, they teem, fairly teem, though their dwellers—poor cusses!—
Can only just ketch the tram-bells in the distance, and ain't never bossed from the knifeboards of 'busses.
That's just where swell ink-slingers miss the true London. That wasn't the way though with good Charley Dickens.
Pickwick is one of the books in our Shelter, and Pickwick, I 'old, gives the reader rare pickins.
When drying my legs over corfee and heggs I git a larf out o' that patter o' Sammy.
It ain't quite our up-to-date kibosh, o' course, but the way as that Sam chewed the rag was just jammy.
Knowed some queer things about London, 'e did, 'is London, of course, cabrioleys and such-like.
My survey's "extensive," and likeways "pecooliar," in that me and Sammy seem much of a much like.
A whip, like old Weller, I do not, like 'im, do the same bit o' road, come-day-go-day together.
I know, in my line, every inch of the town, at all times o' day, and in all sorts o' weather.
I'd just like a turn "Round the Town" with young Sam, or a talk over sossige and mashed in our Shelter;
Comparing of notes, with the Growler for chorus, I 'aven't no doubt we should come out a pelter.
"Cabby," they sing, "knows 'is fare." I should think so, or else 'e must be a blind mug or a babby.
And who, from a dook to a chorister minx, 'asn't, one time or other, been "fare" to a Cabby?
I've driven the dook and the damsel together, as fur as that goes. And the dook was that squiffy
'E wanted to go me "dooks up" for the fare. But that would 'ave brought down the slops in a jiffy.
You mustn't 'ave much flesh and blood, as a Cabby, I tell you. At scrapping we're most of us 'andy;
But knockin' out nobs, as a rule, doesn't pay, when said nobs 'ave been mixing champagne and neat brandy.
The boosys and bilks try our tempers, I tell you. But tempers are luxuries, like sparrer grass is.
If you've seen a helderly, hamorous gent, on the tiddley, you know what a worriting ass is.
Argue for hours about sixpence, 'e will, then 'unt all 'is pockets, and find 'e aint got one.
Collapse in a corner, and fall fast asleep, with a boiled baby smile on 'is chump. 'E's a 'ot one.
Hit 'im? Oh no! 'E may waste you a hour, and then offer a drink, which 'e 'asn't the price of,
And maunder and mumble till you are arf mad; but if an old stager you'll take the advice of,
You won't knock 'is 'ead off! It's tempting, I know, and sometimes you would give twice the fare for the pleasure;
But squiffy old gents are the magistrates' pets, they've got money—at 'ome—and, what's more, lots of leisure!
"Treacle" now, can't 'old 'is tongue with old Tiddleys. Poor "Treacle" was once a smart gentleman farmer,
And kep 'is own dog-cart. 'E's got one fair daughter, who, even in chocolate cotton's a charmer.
Ah! sweet as fresh 'ay, in a manner o' speaking, is young Bessie Finch, though she's but a machiner.
Its curious 'ow sulky old "Treacle" lights up when 'is gal Bessie brings 'im 'is poor bit o' dinner.
'E was just taking up an old Tiddley one time when Miss Bessie turned up, and the bosky old geeser
Made eyes at the maid, and said just arf a word, when poor Treacle's fist caught 'im a slap on 'is sneezer
As made 'im see stars. 'Twas a trifle too previous, p'r'aps, for a sulky old chip of a Cabby;
A 'ero don't look like a 'ero somehow when 'is phiz is wind-blue and 'is billycock shabby.
Old Tiddley was quite a respectable gent, a benevolent buffer, who lived out at Clapham;
And when subub saints 'ave been dining a mossel, it won't do for grumpy old Growlers to slap 'em.
So "Treacle," as usual, got toko, you see, likeways missed a good fare, 'long o' bein' too 'asty;
Which shows as a Cabby 'is temper must check, and in trifles must not be too ticklish or tasty.