I. A Spring Song

The world ’as got me snouted jist a treat; Crool Forchin’s dirty left ’as smote me soul; An’ all them joys o’ life I ’eld so sweet Is up the pole.  Fer, as the poit sez, me ’eart ’as got The pip wiv yearnin’ fer—­I dunno wot.

I’m crook; me name is Mud; I’ve done me dash;
  Me flamin’ spirit’s got the flamin’ ’ump! 
I’m longin’ to let loose on somethin’ rash.... 
  Aw, I’m a chump! 
I know it; but this blimed ole Springtime craze
  Fair outs me, on these dilly, silly days.

The young green leaves is shootin’ on the trees,
  The air is like a long, cool swig o’ beer,
The bonzer smell o’ flow’rs is on the breeze,
  An’ ’ere’s me, ’ere,
Jist moochin’ round like some pore, barmy coot,
  Of ‘ope, an’ joy, an’ forchin destichoot.

I’ve lorst me former joy in gettin’ shick,
  Or ‘eadin’ browns; I ’aven’t got the ’eart
To word a tom; an’, square an’ all,
  I’m sick of that cheap tart
’Oo chucks ’er carkis at a feller’s ’ead
  An’ mauls ’im...Ar!  I wish’t that I wus dead!...

Ther’s little breezes stirrin’ in the leaves,
  An’ sparrers chirpin’ ’igh the ’ole day long;
An’ on the air a sad, sweet music breaves
  A bonzer song—­
A mournful sorter choon thet gits a bloke
  Fair in the brisket ‘ere, an’ makes ’im choke ...

What is the matter wiv me?...I dunno. 
  I got a sorter yearnin’ ’ere inside,
A dead-crook sorter thing that won’t let go
  Or be denied—­
A feelin’ like I want to do a break,
  An’ stoush creation for some woman’s sake.

The little birds is chirpin’ in the nest,
  The parks an’ gardings is a bosker sight,
Where smilin’ tarts walks up an’ down, all dressed
  In clobber white. 
An’, as their snowy forms goes steppin’ by,
  It seems I’m seekin’ somethin’ on the sly.

Somethin’ or someone—­I don’t rightly know;
  But, seems to me, I’m kind er lookin’ for
A tart I knoo a ’undred years ago,
  Or, maybe, more. 
Wot’s this I’ve ’eard them call that thing?...Geewhizz! 
Me ideel bit o’ skirt!  That’s wot it is!

Me ideel tart!...  An’, bli’me, look at me! 
  Jist take a squiz at this, an’ tell me can
Some square an’ honist tom take this to be
  ’Er own true man? 
Aw, Gawd!  I’d be as true to ’er, I would
  As straight an’ stiddy as...Ar, wot’s the good?

Me, that ‘as done me stretch fer stoushin’ Johns,
  An’ spen’s me leisure gittin’ on the shick,
An’ ’arf me nights down there, in Little Lon.,
  Wiv Ginger Mick,
Jist ‘eadin’ ’em, an’ doing in me gilt. 
  Tough luck!  I s’pose it’s ’ow a man is built.

It’s ’ow Gawd builds a bloke; but don’t it ’urt
  When ’e gits yearnin’s fer this ’igher life,
On these Spring mornin’s, watchin’ some sweet skirt
  Some fucher wife—­
Go sailin’ by, an’ turnin’ on his phiz
  The glarssy eye—­fer bein’ wot ’e is.