“Young friend,” ‘e sez...Yes, my
Doreen an’ me
We’re gettin’ hitched, all
straight an’ on the square.
Fer when I torks about the registry—
0 ’oly wars! yeh should ‘a’
seen ’er stare;
“The registry?” she sez, “I
wouldn’t dare!
I know a clergyman we’ll go an’ see"...
“Young friend,”
’e sez.
“Young friend,” ‘e sez. An’
then ’e chats me straight;
An’ spouts of death, an’ ‘ell,
an’ mortal sins.
“You reckernize this step you contemplate
Is grave? ‘e sez. An’
I jist stan’s an’ grins;
Fer when I chips, Doreen she kicks me
shins.
“Yes, very ’oly is the married state,
Young friend,”
’e sez.
“Young friend,” ‘e sez. An’
then ’e mags a lot
Of jooty an’ the spiritchuil life,
To which I didn’t tumble worth a jot.
“I’m sure,” ’e
sez, “as you will ’ave a wife
’Oo’ll ’ave a noble infl’ince
on yer life.
’Oo is ’er gardjin?” I sez, “’Er
ole pot”—
“Young friend!”
’e sez.
“Young friend,” ’e sez. “Oh
fix yer thorts on ’igh!
Orl marridges is registered up there!
An’ you must cleave unto ’er till yeh
die,
An’ cherish ‘er wiv love an’
tender care.
E’n in the days when she’s
no longer fair
She’s still yer wife,” ’e sez.
“Ribuck,” sez I.
“Young
friend!” ’e sez.
“Young friend,” ’e sez—I
sez, “Now, listen ’ere:
This isn’t one o’ them impetchus
leaps.
There ain’t no tart a ’undreth part so
dear
As ’er. She ’as me ‘eart
an’ soul fer keeps!”
An’ then Doreen, she turns away
an’ weeps;
But ’e jist smiles. “Yer deep in
love, ’tis clear,
Young friend,”
’e sez.
“Young friend,” ‘e sez—an’
tears wus in ’is eyes—
“Strive ’ard. Fer many,
many years I’ve lived.
An’ l kin but recall wiv tears an’ sighs
The lives of some I’ve seen in marridge
gived.”
“My Gawd!” I sez. “I’ll
strive as no bloke strivved!
Fer don’t I know I’ve copped a bonzer
prize?”
“Young friend,”
’e sez.
“Young friend,” ‘e sez. An’
in ’is gentle way,
’E pats the shoulder of my dear
Doreen.
“I’ve solem’ized grand weddin’s
in me day,
But ’ere’s the sweetest little
maid I’ve seen.
She’s fit fer any man, to be ’is
queen;
An’ you’re more forchinit than you kin
say,
Young friend,”
’e sez.
“Young friend,” ’e sez...A queer
ole pilot bloke,
Wiv silver ’air. The gentle
way ’e dealt
Wiv ‘er, the soft an’ kindly way ’e
spoke
To my Doreen, ’ud make a statcher
melt.
I tell yer, square an’ all, I sorter
felt
A kiddish kind o’ feelin’ like I’d
choke...
“Young friend,”
’e sez.
“Young friend,” ’e sez, “you
two on Choosday week,
Is to be joined in very ’oly bonds.
To break them vows I ’opes yeh’ll never
seek;
Fer I could curse them ’usbands
’oo absconds!”
“I’ll love ’er till
I snuff it,” I responds.
“Ah, that’s the way I likes to ’ear
yeh speak,
Young friend,”
’e sez.