The paper's damp and Jimmy's late to-night;
"Belov'd, if I was rich," was what he said,
O Jim, I wish that God would kill me dead.'
While she was blinking at the unlit grate,
Scratching the moistened match-heads off the wood,
She heard Jim coming, so she reached his plate,
And forked the over-frizzled scraps of food.
'You're late,' she said, 'and this yer isn't good,
Whatever makes you come in late like this?'
'I've been to Plaister's End, that's how it is.'