The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke

by C. J. Dennis

"Young friend," 'e sez. An' in 'is gentle way,
'E pats the shoulder of my dear Doreen.
"I've solem'ized grand weddin's in me day,
But 'ere's the sweetest little maid I've seen.
She's fit fer any man, to be 'is queen;
An' you're more forchinit than you kin say,
Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez…A queer ole pilot bloke,
Wiv silver 'air. The gentle way 'e dealt
Wiv 'er, the soft an' kindly way 'e spoke
To my Doreen, 'ud make a statcher melt.
I tell yer, square an' all, I sorter felt
A kiddish kind o' feelin' like I'd choke…
"Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez, "you two on Choosday week,
Is to be joined in very 'oly bonds.
To break them vows I 'opes yeh'll never seek;
Fer I could curse them 'usbands 'oo absconds!"
"I'll love 'er till I snuff it," I responds.
"Ah, that's the way I likes to 'ear yeh speak,
Young friend," 'e sez.

"Young friend," 'e sez—an' then me 'and 'e grips
"I wish't yeh luck, you an' yer lady fair.
Sweet maid." An' sof'ly wiv 'is finger-tips,
'E takes an' strokes me cliner's shinin' 'air.
An' when I seen 'er standin' blushin' there,
I turns an' kisses 'er, fair on the lips.
"Young friend!" 'e sez.

X. Hitched

"An'—wilt—yeh—take—this—woman—fer—to—be—
Yer—weddid—wife?"…O, strike me! Will I wot?
TAKE 'er? Doreen? 'E stan's there ARSTIN' me!
As if 'e thort per'aps I'd rather not!
TAKE 'er? 'E seemed to think 'er kind was got
Like cigarette-cards, fer the arstin'. Still,
I does me stunt in this 'ere hitchin' rot,
An' speaks me piece: "Righto!" I sez, "I will."

"I will," I sez. An' tho' a joyful shout
Come from me bustin' 'eart—I know it did—
Me voice got sorter mangled comin' out,
An' makes me whisper like a frightened kid.
"I will," I squeaks. An' I'd 'a' give a quid
To 'ad it on the quite, wivout this fuss,
An' orl the starin' crowd that Mar 'ad bid
To see this solim hitchin' up of us.

"Fer—rich-er—er—fer—por-er." So 'e bleats.
"In—sick-ness—an'—in-ealth,"…An' there I stands,
An' dunno'arf the chatter I repeats,
Nor wot the 'ell to do wiv my two 'ands.
But 'e don't 'urry puttin' on our brands—
This white-'aired pilot-bloke—but gives it lip,
Dressed in 'is little shirt, wiv frills an' bands.
"In sick-ness—an'—in—" Ar! I got the pip!
An' once I missed me turn; an' Ginger Mick,
'Oo's my best-man, 'e ups an' beefs it out.
"I will!" 'e 'owls; an' fetches me a kick.
"Your turn to chin!" 'e tips wiv a shout.
An' there I'm standin' like a gawky lout.
(Aw, spare me! But I seemed to be ALL 'ands!)
An' wonders wot 'e's goin' crook about,
Wiv 'arf a mind to crack 'im where 'e stands.

O, lumme! But ole Ginger was a trick!
Got up regardless fer the solim rite.
('E 'awks the bunnies when 'e toils, does Mick)
An' twice I saw 'im feelin' fer a light
To start a fag; an' trembles lest'e might,
Thro' force o' habit like. 'E's nervis too;
That's plain, fer orl 'is air o' bluff an' skite;
An' jist as keen as me to see it thro'.

But, 'struth, the wimmin! 'Ow they love this frill!
Fer Auntie Liz, an' Mar, o' course, wus there;
An' Mar's two uncles' wives, an' Cousin Lil,
An' 'arf a dozen more to grin and stare.
I couldn't make me 'ands fit anywhere!
I felt like I wus up afore the Beak!
But my Doreen she never turns a 'air,
Nor misses once when it's 'er turn to speak.