“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.

Ar, strike!  No more swell marridges fer me! 
  It seems a blinded year afore ’e’s done. 
We could ‘a’ fixed it in the registree
  Twice over ’fore this cove ’ad ’arf begun. 
  I s’pose the wimmin git some sorter fun
Wiv all this guyver, an’ ’is nibs’s shirt. 
  But, seems to me, it takes the bloomin’ bun,
This stylish splicin’ uv a bloke an’ skirt.