But I ‘ave chucked it all.  An’ yet—­I own
  I dreams me dreams when soft Spring breezes stirs;
An’ often, when I’m moonin’ ’ere alone,
  A lispin’ maid, wiv ‘air an’ eyes like ’ers,
’Oo calls me “dad,” she climbs upon me knee,
An’ yaps ’er pretty baby tork to me.

I sorter see a little ’ouse, it seems,
  Wiv someone waitin’ for me at the gate... 
Ar, where’s the sense in dreamin’ barmy dreams,
  I’ve dreamed before, and nearly woke too late. 
Sich ’appiness could never last fer long,
We’re strangers—­’less she owns that she was wrong.

To call ’er back I’ll never lift a ’and;
  She’ll never ’ear frum me by word or sign. 
Per’aps, some day, she’ll come to understand
  The mess she’s made o’ this ‘ere life o’ mine. 
Oh, I ain’t much to look at, I admit. 
But’im!  The knock-kneed, swivel-eyed misfit?...

VII.  The Siren

She sung a song; an’ I sat silent there,
Wiv bofe ‘ands grippin’ ’ard on me chair;
  Me ’eart, that yesterdee I thort wus broke
Wiv ’umpin sich a ‘eavy load o’ care,
  Come swelling in me throat like I would choke. 
I felt ‘ot blushes climbin’ to me ’air.

‘Twas like that feelin’ when the Spring wind breaves
Sad music in the sof’ly rustlin’ leaves. 
  An’ when a bloke sits down an’ starts to chew
Crook thorts, wivout quite knowin’ why ’e grieves
  Fer things ’e’s done ’e didn’t ort to do—­
Fair winded wiv the ’eavy sighs ’e ’eaves.

She sung a song; an’ orl at once I seen
The kind o’ crool an’ ’eartless broot I been. 
  In ev’ry word I read it like a book—­
The slanter game I’d played wiv my Doreen—­
  I ’eard it in ‘er song; an’ in ’er look
I seen wot made me feel fair rotten mean.

Poor, ‘urt Doreen!  My tender bit o’ fluff! 
Ar, men don’t understand; they’re fur too rough;
  Their ways is fur too coarse wiv lovin’ tarts;
They never gives ’em symperthy enough. 
  They treats ’em ’arsh; they tramples on their ’earts,
Becos their own crool ’earts is leather-tough.

She sung a song; an’ orl them bitter things
That chewin’ over lovers’ quarrils brings
  Guv place to thorts of sorrer an’ remorse. 
Like when some dilly punter goes an’ slings
  ’Is larst, lone deener on some stiffened ’orse,
An’ learns them vain regrets wot ‘urts an’ stings.

’Twas at a beano where I lobs along
To drown them memories o’ fancied wrong. 
  I swears I never knoo that she’d be there. 
But when I met ’er eye—­O, ’struth, ’twas strong! 
  ‘Twas bitter strong, that jolt o’ dull despair! 
‘Er look o’ scorn!...An’ then, she sung a song.

The choon was one o’ them sad, mournful things
That ketch yeh in the bellers ’ere, and brings
  Tears to yer eyes.  The words was uv a tart
‘Oo’s trackin’ wiv a silly coot ’oo slings
  ‘Er love aside, an’ breaks ’er tender ’eart.... 
But ’twasn’t that; it was the way she sings.