The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke | Page 3

wants ter meet Doreen;
Then we kin get an intro, if
we've luck.
'E sez, "Ribuck."
O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
But, 'struth, I ain't recovered
frum it yet!
'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street,
An'--quite by
accident, o' course--we meet.
Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff

'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
"This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. "This
'ere's the Kid."
I dips me lid.
"This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. I sez "Good day."
An', bli'me, I 'ad
nothin' more ter say!
I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye.
Clean
done me block! I never been so shy.
Not since I was a tiny little cub,

An' run the rabbit to the corner pub--
Wot time the Summer days
wus dry an' 'ot--
Fer me ole pot.
Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft,
An' chucked orf at
'em like a phonergraft!
Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o'
speech.
But, 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach!
The sweetest in
the barrer! Spare me days,
I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways.

The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair!...
Oh, gimme air!
I dunno 'ow I done it in the end.
I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend;

An' tried ter play at 'andies in the park,
A thing she wouldn't sight.
Aw, it's a nark!
I gotter swear when I think wot a mug
I must 'a'
seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug
That promise that she give me fer the
beach.
The bonzer peach!
Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by
On ledding feet. I wish't they'd
do a guy.
I dunno'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak,
An' make that meet
wiv 'er fer Sundee week!

But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do

When 'e's all out...She's gorn, when I come-to.
I'm yappin' to me

cobber uv me mash....
I've done me dash!
'Er name's Doreen....An' me-that thort I knoo
The ways uv tarts, an'
all that smoogin' game!
An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few?
Yet
some'ow...I dunno. It ain't the same.
I carn't tell WOT it is; but, all I
know,
I've dropped me bundle--an' I'm glad it's so.
Fer when I come
ter think uv wot I been....
'Er name's Doreen.
III. The Stoush o' Day
Ar, these is 'appy days! An' 'ow they've flown--
Flown like the smoke
of some inchanted fag;
Since dear Doreen, the sweetest tart I've
known,
Passed me the jolt that made me sky the rag.
An' ev'ry
golding day floats o'er a chap
Like a glad dream of some celeschil
scrap.
Refreshed wiv sleep Day to the mornin' mill
Comes jauntily to out
the nigger, Night.
Trained to the minute, confident in skill,
'E
swaggers in the East, chock-full o' skite;
Then spars a bit, an' plugs
Night on the point.
Out go the stars; an' Day 'as jumped the joint.
The sun looks up, an' wiv a cautious stare,
Like some crook keekin'
o'er a winder sill
To make dead cert'in everythink is square,
'E
shoves 'is boko o'er an Eastern 'ill,
Then rises, wiv 'is dial all a-grin,

An' sez, "'Ooray! I knoo that we could win!"
Sure of 'is title then, the champeen Day
Begins to put on dawg among
'is push,
An', as he mooches on 'is gaudy way,
Drors tribute from
each tree an' flow'r an' bush.
An', w'ile 'e swigs the dew in sylvan bars,

The sun shouts insults at the sneakin' stars.
Then, lo! the push o' Day rise to applaud;
An' all 'is creatures clamour
at 'is feet
Until 'e thinks'imself a little gawd,
An' swaggers on an'
kids 'imself a treat.
The w'ile the lurkin' barrackers o' Night
Sneak
in retreat an' plan another fight.

On thro' the hours, triumphant, proud an' fit,
The champeen marches
on 'is up'ard way,
Till, at the zenith, bli'me! 'E-is-IT!
And all the
world bows to the Boshter Day.
The jealous Night speeds ethergrams
thro' space
'Otly demandin' terms, an' time, an' place.
A wile the champeen scorns to make reply;
'E's taken tickets on 'is
own 'igh worth;
Puffed up wiv pride, an' livin' mighty 'igh,
'E don't
admit that Night is on the earth.
But as the hours creep on 'e deigns to
state
'E'll fight for all the earth an' 'arf the gate.
Late afternoon...Day feels 'is flabby arms,
An' tells 'imself 'e don't
seem quite the thing.
The 'omin' birds shriek clamorous alarms;
An'
Night creeps stealthily to gain the ring.
But see! The champeen backs
an' fills, becos
'E doesn't feel the Boshter Bloke 'e was.
Time does a bunk as us-u-al, nor stays
A single instant, e'en at Day's
be'est.
Alas, the 'eavy-weight's 'igh-livin' ways
'As made 'im soft,
an' large around the vest.
'E sez 'e's fat inside; 'e starts to whine;
'E
sez 'e wants to dror the colour line.
Relentless nigger Night crawls thro' the ropes,
Advancin' grimly on
the quakin' Day,
Whose noisy push, shorn of their 'igh-noon 'opes,

Wait, 'ushed an' anxious, fer the comin' fray.
And many lusty
barrackers of noon
Desert 'im one by one--traitors so soon!
'E's out er form! 'E 'asn't trained enough!
They mark their sickly
champeen on the stage,
An' narked, the sun, 'is