Me days an’ nights is full of schemes an’ plans
  To figger profits an’ cut out the loss;
An’ when the pickin’s on, I ’ave me ’an’s
  To take me orders while I act the boss;
It’s sorter sweet to ’ave the right to rouse.... 
An’ my Doreen’s the lady of the ’ouse.

To see ‘er bustlin’ ’round about the place,
  Full of the simple joy o’ doin’ things,
That thoughtful, ’appy look upon ’er face,
That ‘ope an’ peace an’ pride o’ labour brings,
Is worth the crowd of joys I knoo one time,
An’ makes regrettin’ ’em seem like a crime.

An’ ev’ry little while ole Uncle Jim
  Comes up to stay a bit an’ pass a tip. 
It gives us ’eart jist fer to look at ’im,
  An’ feel the friendship in ’is warm ’and-grip. 
’Im, wiv the sunburn on ’is kind ole dile;
’Im, wiv the sunbeams in ’is sweet ole smile.

“I got no time fer wasters, lad,” sez ’e,
  “But that there ugly mug o’ yourn I trust.” 
An’ so I reckon that it’s up to me
  To make a bloomin’ do of it or bust. 
I got to take the back-ache wiv the rest,
An’ plug along, an’ do me little best.

Luck ain’t no steady visitor, I know;
  But now an’ then it calls—­fer look at me! 
You wouldn’t take me, ’bout a year ago,
  Free gratis wiv a shillin’ pound o’ tea;
Then, in a blessed ’eap, ole Forchin lands
A missus an’ a farm fair in me ’ands.

XIII.  The Kid

My son!...Them words, jist like a blessed song, Is singin’ in me ’eart the ’ole day long; Over an’ over; while I’m scared I’ll wake Out of a dream, to find it all a fake.

My son!  Two little words, that, yesterdee,
Wus jist two simple, senseless words to me;
  An’ now—­no man, not since the world begun,
  Made any better pray’r than that....My son!

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” an’—­sich is life.

But ’struth!  ’E is king-pin!  The ’ead serang! 
I mustn’t tramp about, or talk no slang;
  I mustn’t pinch ’is nose, or make a face,
  I mustn’t—­Strike!  ’E seems to own the place!

Cunnin’?  Yeh’d think, to look into ’is eyes,
‘E knoo the game clean thro’; ’e seems that wise. 
  Wiv ’er ’an nurse ‘e is the leadin’ man,
  An’ poor ole dad’s amongst the “also ran.”

“Goog, goo,” ’e sez, and curls ‘is cunnin’ toes. 
Yeh’d be su’prised the ‘caps o’ things ’e knows. 
  I’ll swear ’e tumbles I’m ’is father, too;
  The way ‘e squints at me, an’ sez “Goog, goo.”

Why! ‘smornin’ ’ere ’is lordship gits a grip
Fair on me finger-give it quite a nip! 
  An’ when I tugs, ’e won’t let go ’is hold! 
  ‘Angs on like that!  An’ ’im not three weeks old!