She's only a little Plebeian!
And I'm a Patrician swell!
But she's as sweet as Aurora, and how I adore her,
No eloquence ever can tell!
Only a fried-fish vend-ar!
Selling her saucers of whilks,
[Almost defiant stress on the word "whilks."
But, for me, she's as slend-ar—far more true and tend-ar,
Than if she wore satins and silks!
[The grammar of the last two lines is shaky, but the Lion-Comique must try to put up with that, and, after all, does sincere emotion ever stop to think about grammar? If it does, Music-hall audiences don't—which is the main point.
Second Verse.
I longed before her little feet to grovel in the gutter:
I vowed, unless I won her as a wife, 'twould drive me mad!
Until at last a shy consent I coaxed her lips to utter,
For she dallied with her Anglo-Dutch, and whispered, "Speak to Dad!"
Refrain—For she's only a little Plebeian, &c.
Third Verse.
I called upon her sire, and found him lowly born, but brawny,
A noble type, when sober, of the British artisan;
I grasped his honest hand, and didn't mind its being horny:
"Behold!" I cried, "a suitor for your daughter, Mary Ann!"
Refrain—Though she's only a little Plebeian, &c.
Fourth Verse.
"You ask me, gov'nor, to resign," said he, "my only treasure,
And so a toff her fickle heart away from me has won!"
He turned to mask his manly woe behind a pewter measure—
Then, breathing blessings through the beer, he said; "All right, my son!