The Songs Of A Sentimental Bloke Part 2

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.

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 sc.r.a.ps 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.

Wot's jist plain stoush wiv us, right 'ere to-day, Is "valler" if yer fur enough away.

Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick Wiv Ginger Mick, Of Spadger's Lane. 'E'LL be a Romeo, When 'e's bin dead five 'undred years or so.