I owns I’ve ’ankered fer me former joys;
  I’ve ‘ad me hours o’ broodin’ on me woes;
I’ve missed the comp’ny, an’ I’ve missed the noise,
  The football matches an’ the picter shows. 
I’ve missed—­but, say, it makes me feel fair mean
To whip the cat; an’ then see my Doreen.

To see the colour comin’ in ’er cheeks,
  To see ’er eyes grow brighter day be day,
The new, glad way she looks an’ laughs an’ speaks
  Is worf ten times the things I’ve chucked away. 
An’ there’s a secret, whispered in the dark,
’As made me ‘eart sing like a flamin’ lark.

Jist let me tell yeh ’ow it come about. 
  The things that I’ve been thro’ ’ud fill a book. 
Right frum me birf Fate played to knock me out;
  The ’and that I ’ad dealt to me was crook! 
Then comes Doreen, an’ patches up me parst;
Now Forchin’s come to bunk wiv me at larst.

First orf, one night poor Mar gits suddin fits,
  An’ floats wivout the time to wave “good-byes.” 
Doreen is orl broke up the day she flits;
  It tears me ’eart in two the way she cries. 
To see ’er grief, it almost made me glad
I never knowed the mar I must ’ave ’ad.

We done poor Muvver proud when she went out
  A slap-up send-orf, trimmed wiv tears an’ crape. 
An’ then fer weeks Doreen she mopes about,
  An’ life takes on a gloomy sorter shape. 
I watch ’er face git pale, ’er eyes grow dim;
Till—­like some ’airy angel—­comes ole Jim.

A cherub togged in sunburn an’ a beard
  An’ duds that shouted “’Ayseed!” fer a mile: 
Care took the count the minute ’e appeared,
An’ sorter shrivelled up before ’is smile,
’E got the ’ammer-lock on my good-will
The minute that ’e sez, “So, this is Bill.”

It’s got me beat.  Doreen’s late Par, some way,
  Was second cousin to ’is bruvver’s wife. 
Somethin’ like that.  In less than ’arf a day
  It seemed ’e’d been my uncle orl me life. 
’E takes me ’and:  “I dunno ’ow it is,”
’E sez, “but, lad, I likes that ugly phiz.”

An’ when ’e’d stayed wiv us a little while
  The ’ouse begun to look like ’ome once more. 
Doreen she brightens up beneath ’is smile,
  An’ ’ugs ‘im till I kids I’m gettin’ sore. 
Then, late one night, ’e opens up ’is scheme,
An’ passes me wot looks like some fond dream.

’E ‘as a little fruit-farm, doin’ well;
  ’E saved a tidy bit to see ‘im thro’;
‘E’s gettin’ old fer toil, an’ wants a spell;
  An’ ’ere’s a ‘ome jist waitin’ fer us two. 
“It’s ‘ers an’ yours fer keeps when I am gone,”
Sez Uncle Jim.  “Lad, will yeh take it on?”

So that’s the strength of it.  An’ ’ere’s me now
  A flamin’ berry farmer, full o’ toil;
Playin’ joo-jitsoo wiv an’ ‘orse an’ plough,
  An’ coaxin’ fancy tucker frum the soil,
An’ ]ongin’, while I wrestles with the rake,
Fer days when me poor back fergits to ache.