Oh, the youth of today and their horrid slang

by Instant Noodle

ow debased is that tongue, one our glory and pride ;
By a torrent of Slang how remorselessly dyed;
As this Punch has observed with a patriot’s pang,
He devotes to his country this Chapter on Slang.

To its champions and friends
from the small to the big.
From my LORD BOBBY CAUDLE
to little BILL PRIGG;
Punch addresses these lines, and
he hopes they’ll amend,
When he holds up to laughter
“our dashing young friend.”

Our dashing young friend of today never tells
The, hotel he puts up at, or
house where he dwells,
Of his Digging perchance we’ll
hear something about,
Or his Crib, or Concern, Sir, or
where he Hangs out.

Our friend has no pocket, he
may have a Fob,
Though it holds not a shilling, it may hold a Bob;
It has not a sixpence,
or any coin in,
Though it may have a Tizzy, a Bender, or Tin.

Our friend of to-day has no watch to his name,
‘Tis a Ticker, or Turnip ; if wrong, it goes Lame:
What the hour is he knows not, though able to say
How the Enemy goes, or what’s His time of day.

Our friend knows of nothing that ‘s strange, it is Rum ;
His is not a companion, he’s always a Chum;
Though his Chum is not staunch, yet he may be a Brick,
And though young men are fast, all things else so are Slick.

Our friend knows of nothing a plague, it ‘s a Saw,
Though lie drinks brandy Neat, he has ne’er had it raw;
His father’s no father, but out of a joke,
He’s the Guv’ncr, Old Buffer, Old Cock, or Old Bloke.

Our friend of to-day has no coat, it ‘s a Tog,
And he ne’er dresses well, though he Goes the whole hog,
He is then just the Cheddar, the Cut, Cheese, or Style,
Though his head bears a Bellinger, Beaver, or Tile.

Our friend prone to vices you never may see,
Though he goes on the Loose, or the Cut, or the Spree,
For brutally drunk, he’s as Screwed as old Nick,
And you’11 find him next morning, though, Seedy not sick.

Our friend of to-day sees a Kid, not a child,
And he never gets steady, he Draws the thing mild
A jest should be Knocked off, Cheesed, Shut up, or Stashed
And a man’s broken nose, is his Claret-jug squashed.

Our friend never suffers a fraud or a cheat,
He is Gammon’d, or Sold, or Let into it sweet;
He never retreats, though he Mizzles it quick,
Or he Slopes, Bolts, or Hooks it, or else Cuts his stick.

Our friend of to-day is not cairn, he is Cool,
And a man who is not wise must be Soft, or a Fool;
For a scolding, he always Comes in for a wigging,
A Rowing, a Jawing, a Lipping, or Rigging.

Mr. Punch thinks it high time his Shop to shut up,
He commends these remarks to each Darling young pup,
Who in slang words deals largely, and thinks it Dem rare
Like our snobs, nobs, and footpads, to slang, and to swear.

I may have to mizzle this commentary quickly.

(July 9th, 1859)

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