She sung a song....’Ere, in me barmy style,
I sets orl tarts; for in me hour o’ trile
  Me soul was withered be a woman’s frown,
An’ broodin’ care come roostin’ on me dile. 
  She sung a song....Me ’eart, wiv woe carst down,
Wus raised to ’Eaven be a woman’s smile.

VIII.  Mar

“’Er pore dear par,” she sez, “’e kept a store”; An’ then she weeps an’ stares ’ard at the floor.  “‘Twas thro’ ’is death,” she sez, “we wus rejuiced To this,” she sez...An’ then she weeps some more.

“’Er Par,” she sez, “me poor late ’usband, kept
An ‘ay an’ corn store.  ’E’d no faults ixcept
  ‘Im fallin’ ‘eavy orf a load o’ charf
W’ich—­killed ’im—­on the—–­” ’Struth!  But ’ow she wept.

She blows ‘er nose an’ sniffs. “’E would ‘a’ made”
She sez “a lot of money in the trade. 
  But, ’im took orf so sudden-like, we found
’E ’adn’t kept ’is life insurince paid.

“To think,” she sez, “a child o’ mine should be
Rejuiced to workin’ in a factory! 
  If ’er pore Par ’e ’adn’t died,” she sobs... 
I sez, “It wus a bit o’ luck for me.”

Then I gits red as ’ell, “That is—­I mean,”
I sez, “I mighter never met Doreen
If ’e ‘ad not”—­an’ ’ere I lose me block—­“I ’ope,”
I sez, “’e snuffed it quick and clean.”

An’ that wus ’ow I made me first deboo. 
I’d dodged it cunnin’ fer a month or two. 
  Doreen she sez, “You’ll ’ave to meet my Mar,
some day,” she sez.  An’ so I seen it thro’.

I’d pictered some stern female in a cap
Wot puts the fear o’ Gawd into a chap. 
An’ ‘ere she wus, aweepin’ in ’er tea
An’ drippin’ moistcher like a leaky tap.

Two dilly sorter dawgs made outer delf
Stares ’ard at me frum orf the mantelshelf. 
  I seemed to symperthise wiv them there pups;
I felt so stiff an’ brittle-like meself.

Clobber?  Me trosso, ’ead to foot, wus noo—­
Got up regardless, fer this interview. 
  Stiff shirt, a Yankee soot split up the back,
A tie wiv yeller spots an’ stripes o’ blue.

Me cuffs kep’ playin’ wiv me nervis fears
Me patent leathers nearly brought the tears
  An’ there I sits wiv, “Yes, mum.  Thanks.  Indeed?”
Me stand-up collar sorin’ orf me ears.

“Life’s ‘ard,” she sez, an’ then she brightens up. 
“Still, we ’ave alwus ’ad our bite and sup. 
  Doreen’s been sich a help; she ’as indeed. 
Some more tea, Willy?  ’Ave another cup.”

Willy!  O ’ell!  ‘Ere wus a flamin’ pill! 
A moniker that alwus makes me ill. 
  “If it’s the same to you, mum,” I replies
“I answer quicker to the name of Bill.”

Up goes ’er ‘ands an’ eyes, “That vulgar name!”
No, Willy, but it isn’t all the same,
  My fucher son must be respectable.” 
“Orright,” I sez, “I s’pose it’s in the game.”

“Me fucher son,” she sez, “right on frum this
Must not take anythink I say amiss. 
  I know me jooty be me son-in-lor;
So, Willy, come an’ give yer Mar a kiss.”