From the Sentimental Bloke, by C.J. Dennis (Angust & Robertson, 1916).
INTRO
’Er name’s Doreen … Well, spare me bloomin’ days!
You could ’a’ knocked me down wiv ’arf a brick!
Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
An’ ‘as a name fer smoogin’ in our click!
I jist lines up an’ tips the saucy wink.
But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yeh’d think
A bloke wus givin’ back-chat to the Queen. …
Er name’s Doreen.
I seen ’er in the market first uv all,
Inspectin’ brums at Steeny Isaacs’ stall.
I backs me barrier in—the same ole way—
An sez, “Wot O! It’s been a bonzer day.
’Ow is it fer a walk?” … Oh, ’oly wars!
The sort o’ look she gimme! Jest becors
I tried to chat ’er, like yeh’d make a start
Wiv any tart.
…
THE STROR ’AT COOT
Ar, wimmin! Wot a blinded fool I’ve been!
I arsts meself, wot else could I ixpeck?
I done me block complete on this Doreen,
An’ now me ’eart is broke, me life’s a wreck!
The dreams I dreamed, the dilly thorts I thunk
Is up the pole, an’ joy ’as done a bunk.
Wimmin! O strike! I orter known the game!
Their tricks is crook, their arts is all dead snide.
The ’ole world over tarts is all the same;
All soft an’ smilin’ wiv no ’eart inside.
But she fair doped me wive ’er winnin’ ways,
Then crooled me pitch fer all me mortal days.
They’re all the same! A man ’as got to be
Stric’ master if ’e wants to snare ’em sure.
’E ’as to take a stand an’ let ’em see
That triflin’ is a thing ’e won’t indure.
’E wants to show ’em that ’e ’olds command,
So they will smooge an’ feed out of ’is and.
…
HITCHED
“An’—wilt—yeh—take—this—woman—fer—to—be—
Yer—weddid—wife?” … O, strike me! Will I wot?
Take ’er? Doreen? ’E stan’s there arstin’ me!
As if ’he thort per’aps I’d rather not!
Take ’er? ’E seemed to think ’er kind wus got
Like cigarette-cards, fer the arstin’. Still,
I does me stunt in this ’ere hitchin’ rot,
An’ speaks me piece: “Righto!” I sez, “I will.”
“I will,” I sez. An’ tho’ a joyful shout
Come from me burstin’ ’eart—I know it did—
Me voice got sort o’ mangled comin’ out
An’ makes me whisper like a frightened kid.
“I will,” I squeaks. An’ I’d ’a’ give a quid
To ’ad it on the quite, wivout this fuss,
An’ orl the starin’ crowd that Mar ’ad bid
To see this solim hitchin’ up uv us.
…
THE KID
…
My son an’ bloomin’ ’eir … Ours! ’Ers an’ mine!
The finest kid in—Aw, the sun don’t shine—
Ther’ ain’t no joy fer me beneath the blue
Unless I’m gazin’ lovin’ at them two.
A little while ago it was jist “me”—
A lonely, longin’ streak o’ misery.
An’ then ’twas “ ’er an’ me”—Doreen, my wife!
An’ now it’s “ ’im an’ us”—sich is life.
…
I think we ort to make ’im somethin’ great—
A bookie, or a champeen ’eavy-weight:
Some callin’ that’ll give ’im room to spread.
A fool could see ’e’s got a clever ’ead.
…
THE MOOCH O’ LIFE
This ev’nin’ I was sittin’ wiv Doreen,
Peaceful an’ ’appy wiv the day’s work done,
Watchin’, be’ind the orchard’s bonzer green,
The flamin’ wonder uv the settin’ sun.
…
Livin’ an’ lovin’; learnin’ to fergive
The deeds an’ words of some un’happy bloke
Who’s missed the bus—so ’ave I come to live,
An’ take the ’ole mad world as ’arf a joke.
Sittin’ at ev’nin’ in this sunset-land,
Wiv ’Er in all the World to ’old me ’and,
A son, to bear me name when I am gone. …
Livin’ an’ lovin’—so life mooches on.
* Extracted from The Sentimental Bloke. Illustrations by Hal Gye.
