Them shinin' eyes o' blue all soft wiv love
  Wiv MIMIC love—they seemed to 'ipnertize.
    I wus content to place 'er 'igh above.
  I wus content to make of 'er a queen;
  An' so she seemed them days…O, 'struth!…Doreen!

  I knoo. But when I stroked 'er glossy 'air
    Wiv rev'rint 'ands, 'er cheek pressed close to mine,
  Me lonely life seemed robbed of all its care;
    I dreams me dreams, an' 'ope begun to shine.
  An' when she 'eld 'er lips fer me to kiss…
  Ar, wot's the use? I'm done wiv all o' this!

  Wimmin!…Oh, I ain't jealous! Spare me days!
    Me? Jealous uv a knock-kneed coot like that!
  'Im! Wiv 'is cute stror 'at an' pretty ways!
    I'd be a mug to squeal or whip the cat.
  I'm glad, I am—glad 'cos I know I'm free!
  There ain't no call to tork o' jealousy.

  I tells meself I'm well out o' the game;
    Fer look, I mighter married 'er-an' then….
  Ar strike! 'Er voice wus music when my name
    Wus on 'er lips on them glad ev'nin's when
  We useter meet. An' then to think she'd go…
  No, I ain't jealous—but—Ar, I dunno!

  I took a derry on this stror 'at coot
    First time I seen 'im dodgin' round Doreen.
  'Im, wiv 'is giddy tie an' Yankee soot,
    Ferever yappin' like a tork-machine
  About "The Hoffis" where 'e 'ad a grip….
  The way 'e smiled at 'er give me the pip!

  She sez I stoushed 'im, when I promised fair
    To chuck it, even to a friendly spar.
  Stoushed 'im! I never roughed 'is pretty 'air!
    I only spanked 'im gentle, fer 'is mar.
  If I'd 'a' jabbed 'im once, there would 'a' been
  An inquest; an' I sez so to Doreen.

  I mighter took an' cracked 'im in the street,
    When she was wiv 'im there lars' Fridee night.
  But don't I keep me temper when we met?
    An' don't I raise me lid an' act perlite?
  I only jerks me elbow in 'is ribs,
  To give the gentle office to 'is nibs.

  Stoushed 'im! I owns I met 'im on the quiet,
    An' worded 'im about a small affair;
  An' when 'e won't put up 'is 'ands to fight—
    ('E sez, "Fer public brawls 'e didn't care")—
  I lays 'im 'cross me knee, the mother's joy,
  An' smacks 'im 'earty, like a naughty boy.

  An' now Doreen she sez I've broke me vow,
    An' mags about this coot's pore, "wounded pride."
  An' then, o' course, we 'as a ding-dong row,
    Wiv 'ot an' stormy words on either side.
  She sez I done it outer jealousy,
  An' so, we parts fer ever—'er an' me.

  Me jealous? Jealous of that cross-eyed cow!
    I set 'im 'cos I couldn't sight 'is face.
  'Is yappin' fair got on me nerves, some'ow.
    I couldn't stand 'im 'angin' round 'er place.
  A coot like that!…But it don't matter much,
  She's welkim to 'im if she fancies such.

  I swear I'll never track wiv 'er no more;
    I'll never look on 'er side o' the street—
  Unless she comes an' begs me pardin for
    Them things she said to me in angry 'eat.
  She can't ixpeck fer me to smooge an' crawl.
  I ain't at ANY woman's beck an' call.

  Wimmin! I've took a tumble to their game.
    I've got the 'ole bang tribe o' cliners set!
  The 'ole world over they are all the same:
    Crook to the core the bunch of 'em—an' yet
  We could 'a' been that 'appy, 'er an' me…
  But, wot's it matter? Ain't I glad I'm free?

  A bloke wiv commin-sense 'as got to own
    There's little 'appiness in married life.
  The smoogin' game is better left alone,
    Fer tarts is few that makes the ideel wife.
  An' them's the sort that loves wivout disguise,
  An' thinks the sun shines in their 'usban's' eyes.

  But when the birds is matin' in the spring,
    An' when the tender leaves begin to bud,
  A feelin' comes—a dilly sorter thing
  That seems to sorter swamp 'im like a flood.
  An' when the fever 'ere inside 'im burns,
  Then freedom ain't the thing fer wot 'e yearns.

  But I 'ave chucked it all. An' yet—I own
    I dreams me dreams when soft Spring breezes stirs;
  An' often, when I'm moonin' 'ere alone,
    A lispin' maid, wiv 'air an' eyes like 'ers,
  'Oo calls me "dad," she climbs upon me knee,
  An' yaps 'er pretty baby tork to me.

  I sorter see a little 'ouse, it seems,
    Wiv someone waitin' for me at the gate…
  Ar, where's the sense in dreamin' barmy dreams,
    I've dreamed before, and nearly woke too late.
  Sich 'appiness could never last fer long,
  We're strangers—'less she owns that she was wrong.

  To call 'er back I'll never lift a 'and;
    She'll never 'ear frum me by word or sign.
  Per'aps, some day, she'll come to understand
    The mess she's made o' this 'ere life o' mine.
  Oh, I ain't much to look at, I admit.
  But'im! The knock-kneed, swivel-eyed misfit?…

VII. The Siren

  She sung a song; an' I sat silent there,
  Wiv bofe 'ands grippin' 'ard on me chair;
    Me 'eart, that yesterdee I thort wus broke
  Wiv 'umpin sich a 'eavy load o' care,
    Come swelling in me throat like I would choke.
  I felt 'ot blushes climbin' to me 'air.

  'Twas like that feelin' when the Spring wind breaves
  Sad music in the sof'ly rustlin' leaves.
    An' when a bloke sits down an' starts to chew
  Crook thorts, wivout quite knowin' why 'e grieves
    Fer things 'e's done 'e didn't ort to do—
  Fair winded wiv the 'eavy sighs 'e 'eaves.

  She sung a song; an' orl at once I seen
  The kind o' crool an' 'eartless broot I been.
    In ev'ry word I read it like a book—
  The slanter game I'd played wiv my Doreen—
    I 'eard it in 'er song; an' in 'er look
  I seen wot made me feel fair rotten mean.

  Poor, 'urt Doreen! My tender bit o' fluff!
  Ar, men don't understand; they're fur too rough;
    Their ways is fur too coarse wiv lovin' tarts;
  They never gives 'em symperthy enough.
    They treats 'em 'arsh; they tramples on their 'earts,
  Becos their own crool 'earts is leather-tough.

  She sung a song; an' orl them bitter things
  That chewin' over lovers' quarrils brings
    Guv place to thorts of sorrer an' remorse.
  Like when some dilly punter goes an' slings
    'Is larst, lone deener on some stiffened 'orse,
  An' learns them vain regrets wot 'urts an' stings.

  'Twas at a beano where I lobs along
  To drown them memories o' fancied wrong.
    I swears I never knoo that she'd be there.
  But when I met 'er eye—O, 'struth, 'twas strong!
    'Twas bitter strong, that jolt o' dull despair!
  'Er look o' scorn!…An' then, she sung a song.

  The choon was one o' them sad, mournful things
  That ketch yeh in the