(By "Hansom Jack.")

No. VIII.—MORE HARMONY—BUSTER'S LATEST—"HI! FOUR-WHEELER!"—A CAB'S A CAB FOR ALL THAT.

HI! FOUR-WHEELER!!

"Hansom up!" may be the cry when the day is fine and dry,

But wait till it comes night, and a fair drencher.

Then they lead me a rare dance, and don't give me arf a chance,

Of a doss, a peck, a pipe, or modest quencher.

Then through dark, and frost, and wet, there's another cry, you bet,

From the mouth of shiverin' swell, or shoutin' Peeler.

Toffy dames drag cloak and skirt round damp hankles from the dirt,

As they shrink from the chill wind, and the shower's sputtery squirt,

And the cry is then—Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!

Ah, it's all pertikler well for smart beauty and 'er swell,

When a-toolin' to the concert or theayter,

Up the Forder's step to trip, and into the 'Ansom skip,

Like a fawn or other nimble, slim-shank'd craytur.

But returnin' through thick fog, or a roadway like a bog,

When the 'Ansoms turn deaf hears to the swell squealah;

When a friend or two turns hup, and they arsk 'em 'ome to sup,

Then a very 'umble phiz wears the supersillyass pup

As 'e bellers hout—Four-wheelah! Hi!! Four-wheelah!!!

Yus! I'm only "Grumpy Gapes," with my arf-a-dozen capes,

And my sticking-plarster 'at and mulberry boko

(That's pine-happle rum, they blether, 'lowing nothink for the weather),

And I 'ave to give my poor old crock hot toko,

Just to myke 'er break 'er trot, when the toffs put on the pot

(Then they bully me and say they'll call the Peeler).

But so 'elp me Jimmy Jones, tho' I'm stiff in my old bones,

There are times when swells appeal to me in most perthetick tones,

And bleat out a sad—Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!

Then there's 'orty Mistress Browne,-when she's goin' out o' town,

With five kiddies, and a arf-a-ton o' boxes;

Wot's the use, I arsk you, Sir, of a "Shrewsbury" to 'er?

These yer middle-clarss mammas are sly as foxes.

Know the distance to a hinch, and will 'aggle, bate, and pinch,

With the sharpness of a 'Ebrew ole clo-dealer.

They are wuss than mean old codgers, some old female Artful Dodgers,

And I'd sooner 'ear the ghost of Missis Jackermetty Prodgers

Callin' hout to me—Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!

Then a little lot of gents, wot 'as met with "hac-ci-dents"

(In the matter of a trifle too much "tiddley"),

Who tune up like hanything, though whene'er they try to sing

They will mix up "Tarblow Vivong" with "Bob Ridley."

Hah! "There's a picture for yer!" 'Ow they waste yer time and bore yer,

Then mix theirselves up, reglar 'ead-and-'eeler!

'Ansom cab for them? Oh, no! They want room to sprawl, and so,

Though, when sober, they'd cock snook at me as fusty and too slow,

When bosky, 'tis—Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!

Yah! Though every cad and 'owler sniffs at me and calls me Growler,

I'm the old original, useful 'ackney carriage.

I'm a "Clarence." That's my style, though the ignerant my smile,

And at outing, sick case, funeral or marriage,

I lick the 'Ansom wholly, and knock out the cabrioley.

Yus! I feel the touch of Time, that pleasure-stealer.

But old Grumpy Gapes, you bet, braves the frost, and fog, and wet,

And whilst luggage and bad weather lasts, for many a long day yet,

London's cry will be—Four-wheeler! Hi!! Four-wheeler!!!

"Four-wheeler!" went down well as "Hansom Up!" Yessir! When Harmony's on and Benevolence guides it,

A Growler's a cab, just the same as a Forder, and 'e aint no "Cabby," true grit, as derides it.

Cape Clubs and Rug Clubs is all very proper, and so is your Sick Fund and Friendly Society,

But a friendly whip-round, with a sing-song worked in, and no swagger or fuss, is my favrit variety.