’E’s out er form!  ’E ’asn’t trained enough! 
  They mark their sickly champeen on the stage,
An’ narked, the sun, ’is backer, in a huff,
  Sneaks outer sight, red in the face wiv rage. 
W’ile gloomy roosters, they ’oo made the morn
Ring wiv ’is praises, creep to bed forlorn.

All faint an’ groggy grows the beaten Day;
  ’E staggers drunkenly about the ring;
An owl ’oots jeerin’ly across the way,
  An’ bats come out to mock the fallin’ King. 
Now, wiv a jolt, Night spreads ’im on the floor,
An’ all the west grows ruddy wiv ’is gore.

A single, vulgar star leers from the sky
  An’ in derision, rudely mutters, “Yah!”
The moon, Night’s conkerbine, comes glidin’ by
  An’ laughs a ’eartless, silvery “Ha-ha!”
Scorned, beaten, Day gives up the ’opeless fight,
An’ drops ‘is bundle in the lap o’ Night.

* * * * * * * *

So goes each day, like some celeschil mill,
  E’er since I met that shyin’ little peach. 
’Er bonzer voice!  I ’ear its music still,
  As when she guv that promise fer the beach. 
An’, square an’ all, no matter ’ow yeh start,
The commin end of most of us is—­Tart.

IV.  Doreen

“I wish’t yeh menat it, Bill.”  Oh, ’ow me ’eart
   Went out to ‘er that evnin’ on the beach. 
I knew she weren’t no ordinary tart,
      My little peach!

To ’ear ’er voice!  Its gentle sorter tone,
  Like soft dream-music of some Dago band. 
An’ me all out; an’ ‘oldin’ in me own
      ’Er little ’and. 
An’ ’ow she blushed!  O, strike! it was divine
The way she raised ‘er shinin’ eyes to mine.

’Er eyes!  Soft in the moon; such boshter eyes! 
An’ when they sight a bloke...O, spare me days! 
’E goes all loose inside; such glamour lies
      In ’er sweet gaze. 
It makes ’im all ashamed uv wot ’e’s been
To look inter the eyes of my Doreen.

* * * *

The wet sands glistened, an’ the gleamin’ moon
  Shone yeller on the sea, all streakin’ down. 
A band was playin’ some soft, dreamy choon;
      An’ up the town
We ‘eard the distant tram-cars whir an’ clash. 
An’ there I told Per ’ow I’d done me dash.

“I wish’t yeh meant it.”  ’Struth!  And did I, fair? 
  A bloke ’ud be a dawg to kid a skirt
Like her.  An’ me well knowin’ she was square. 
      It ’ud be dirt! 
‘E’d be no man to point wiv her, an’ kid. 
I meant it honest; an’ she knoo I did.

She knoo.  I’ve done me block in on her, straight. 
  A cove ’as got to think some time in life
An’ get some decent tart, ere it’s too late,
      To be ’is wife. 
But, Gawd!  ’Oo would ‘a’ thort it could ‘a’ been
My luck to strike the likes of Per?...Doreen!

Aw, I can stand their chuckin’ off, I can. 
  It’s ‘ard; an’ I’d delight to take ’em on. 
The dawgs!  But it gets that way wiv a man
      When ’e’s fair gone. 
She’ll sight no stoush; an’ so I have to take
Their mag, an’ do a duck fer her sweet sake.