chaff 'em and tip 'em the kibosh is one of my reglarest rules;
And it ain't our sort only as does it, you take the non-anglers
all round,
An you'll find that in potting the puntist they're 'ARRIES right down
to the ground.

All our chicest stock-jokes and pet patter they mops up, like mugs as
they are,
For they _might_ cut their own chaff, eh, CHARLIE? not borrow it all
from the bar.
But I've seen little toffs in white weskits a slinging _our_ lingo
to rights,
About colds, and cock-salmons, and shop 'uns; it's one of the
rummiest sights.

Of course they all trot out SAM JOHNSON; you know the fine crusted
old wheeze.
I chucked it one day at a cove as lay stretched at the foot of
some trees.
"Fool at one end and worm at the other?" sez he. "Ah! that's neat,
and _so_ new,
And as you seem to be worm _and_ fool, one may say 'extremes meet'.
Sir, in _you_."

'Owsomever _I_'ve 'ad a day's 'ooking at last, and it wasn't arf bad.
You know since I turned Primrose Leaguer I've mixed with the Toppers,
my lad;
And one on 'em, pal of the Prince, I believe, got JACK JOLTER a pass
For some fine preserved waters; no pay, mate, and everythink fixed up
fust-class.

JACK arsked me and BELL BONSOR to jine him, and seein' it didn't mean tin,
And the 'ole thing seemed swell, with good grubbing and lots o'
prime lotion chucked in.
I was "on" like a shot. BELL'S a bloomer, and JACK, though a bit
of a jug,
Is too long in the purse to let slip; so the game looked all proper
and snug.

JACK'S a straw-thatched young joker in gig-lamps, good-natured, and
nuts on the sport.
He turns up with four rods and two bait-cans, and tackle of every
dashed sort.
Such rum-looking gimcracks, my pippin; lines coiled up in boxes
and books,
And live-bait, and worms all a-wriggle, and big ugly bunches of 'ooks.

_I_ was a'most afraid to set down, for the things seemed all over
the shop,
And BELL she kep startin' and squeakin', a-settin' me fair on the 'op;
Fust a fish as dabbed flop on her 'at, then a 'ook as got snagged
in 'er skirt,
It was one blessed squork all the time, mate, though nothink much
'appened to 'urt.

Pooty spot; sort o' lake green and windin', with nice quiet "swims"
all about.
Though I must say _I_ missed the Thames gammocks, the snide comic song,
and the shout.
No larks at the l