I done it.  Tho’ l dunno ’ow I did. 
“Dear boy,” she sez, “to do as you are bid. 
  Be kind to ’er,” she sobs, “my little girl!”
An’ then I kiss Doreen.  Sez she “Ah Kid!”

Doreen!  Ar ’ow ’er pretty eyes did shine. 
No sight on earth or ’Eaving’s ’arf so fine,
  An’ as they looked at me she seemed to say
“I’m proud of ‘im, I am, an’ ’e is mine.”

There wus a sorter glimmer in ’er eye,
An ’appy, nervis look, ’arf proud, ’arf shy;
  I seen ’er in me mind be’ind the cups
In our own little kipsie, bye an’ bye.

An’ then when Mar-in-lor an’ me began
To tork of ‘ouse’old things an’ scheme an’ plan,
  A sudden thort fair jolts me where I live: 
“These is my wimmin folk!  An’ I’m a man!”

It’s wot they calls responsibility. 
All of a ‘eap that feelin’ come to me;
  An’ somew’ere in me ’ead I seemed to feel
A sneakin’ sort o’ wish that I was free.

’Ere’s me ’oo never took no ‘eed o’ life,
Investin’ in a mar-in-lor an’ wife: 
  Someone to battle fer besides meself,
Somethink to love an’ shield frum care and strife.

It makes yeh solim when yeh come to think
Wot love and marridge means.  Ar, strike me pink! 
  It ain’t all sighs and kisses.  It’s yer life. 
An’ ‘ere’s me tremblin’ on the bloomin’ brink.

“‘Er pore dead Par,” she sez, an’ gulps a sob. 
An’ then I tells ’er ’ow I got a job,
  As storeman down at Jones’ printin’ joint,
A decent sorter cop at fifty bob.

Then things get ‘ome-like; an’ we torks till late,
An’ tries to tease Doreen to fix the date,
  An’ she gits suddin soft and tender-like,
An’ cries a bit, when we parts at the gate.

An’ as I’m moochin’ ’omeward frum the car
A suddin notion stops me wiv a jar—­
Wot if Doreen, I thinks, should grow to be,
A fat ole weepin’ willer like ’er Mar!

O, ‘struth!  It won’t bear thinkin’ of!  It’s crook! 
An’ I’m a mean, unfeelin’ dawg to look
  At things like that.  Doreen’s Doreen to me,
The sweetest peach on w’ich a man wus shook.

’Er “pore dear Par"...I s’pose ’e ’ad ’is day,
An’ kissed an’ smooged an’ loved ’er in ’is way. 
An’ wed an’ took ’is chances like a man—­
But, Gawd, this splicin’ racket ain’t all play.

Love is a gamble, an’ there ain’t no certs. 
Some day, I s’pose, I’ll git wise to the skirts,
  An’ learn to take the bitter wiv the sweet... 
But, strike me purple!  “Willy!” That’s wot ’urts.

IX.  Pilot Cove

Young friend,” ’e sez...Young friend! 
  Well, spare me days! 
Yeh’d think I wus ’is own white-’eaded boy—­
The queer ole finger, wiv ’is gentle ways. 
  “Young friend,” ’e sez, “I wish’t yeh bofe great joy.” 
  The langwidge that them parson blokes imploy
Fair tickles me.  The way’e bleats an’ brays! 
      “Young friend,” ’e sez.