Fer ’er sweet sake I’ve gone and chucked it clean: 
  The pubs an’ schools an’ all that leery game. 
Fer when a bloke ’as come to know Doreen,
      It ain’t the same. 
There’s ’igher things, she sez, for blokes to do. 
An’ I am ‘arf believin’ that it’s true.

Yes, ’igher things—­that wus the way she spoke;
  An’ when she looked at me I sorter felt
That bosker feelin’ that comes o’er a bloke,
      An’ makes ’im melt;
Makes ’im all ’ot to maul ‘er, an’ to shove
’Is arms about’er...Bli’me? but it’s love!

That’s wot it is.  An’ when a man ’as grown
  Like that ’e gets a sorter yearn inside
To be a little ’ero on ’is own;
      An’ see the pride
Glow in the eyes of ’er ’e calls ’is queen;
An’ ’ear ’er say ’e is a shine champeen.

“I wish’t yeh meant it,” I can ’ear ’er yet,
  My bit o’ fluff!  The moon was shinin’ bright,
Turnin’ the waves all yeller where it set—­
      A bonzer night! 
The sparklin’ sea all sorter gold an’ green;
An’ on the pier the band—­O, ’Ell!...  Doreen!

V. The Play

“Wots in a name?” she sez...An’ then she sighs,
An’ clasps ’er little ‘ands, an’ rolls ’er eyes. 
“A rose,” she sez, “be any other name
Would smell the same. 
Oh, w’erefore art you Romeo, young sir? 
Chuck yer ole pot, an’ change yer moniker!”

Doreen an’ me, we bin to see a show—­
The swell two-dollar touch.  Bong tong, yeh know. 
A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat;
A slap-up treat. 
The drarmer’s writ be Shakespeare, years ago,
About a barmy goat called Romeo.

“Lady, be yonder moon I swear!” sez ’e. 
An’ then ’e climbs up on the balkiney;
An’ there they smooge a treat, wiv pretty words
Like two love-birds. 
I nudge Doreen.  She whispers, “Ain’t it grand!”
‘Er eyes is shinin’; an’ I squeeze ’er ’and.

“Wot’s in a name?” she sez.  ’Struth, I dunno. 
Billo is just as good as Romeo. 
She may be Juli-er or Juli-et—­
’E loves ’er yet. 
If she’s the tart ’e wants, then she’s ’is queen,
Names never count...But ar, I like “Doreen!”

A sweeter, dearer sound I never ’eard;
Ther’s music ’angs around that little word,
Doreen!...But wot was this I starts to say
About the play? 
I’m off me beat.  But when a bloke’s in love
’Is thorts turns ’er way, like a ‘omin’ dove.

This Romeo ‘e’s lurkin’ wiv a crew—­
A dead tough crowd o’ crooks—­called Montague. 
’Is cliner’s push—­wot’s nicknamed Capulet—­
They ’as ’em set. 
Fair narks they are, jist like them back-street clicks,
Ixcep’ they fights wiv skewers ‘stid o’ bricks.

Wot’s in a name?  Wot’s in a string o’ words? 
They scraps in ole Verona with the’r swords,
An’ never give a bloke a stray dog’s chance,
An’ that’s Romance. 
But when they deals it out wiv bricks an’ boots
In Little Lon., they’re low, degraded broots.