The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke, Clarence James Dennis [best 7 inch ereader txt] 📗

wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo
That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo
Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square.
She jist sailed by an' lef' me standin' there
Like any mug. Thinks I, "I'm out er luck,"
An' done a duck

Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
If she'd ha' breasted up ter me an' spoke,
I'd thort 'er jist a commin bit er fluff,
An' then fergot about 'er, like enough.
It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get
Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
The cove called Cupid get an 'ammer-lock;
An' lose yer block.

I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils
The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
I gives me pal the orfis fer to say
'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been
Out uv a jorb, an' wants ter meet Doreen;
Then we kin get an intro, if we've luck.
'E sez, "Ribuck."

O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
But, 'struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet!
'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street,
An'--quite by accident, o' course--we meet.
Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff
'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
"This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. "This 'ere's the Kid."
I dips me lid.

"This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. I sez "Good day."
An', bli'me, I 'ad nothin' more ter say!
I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye.
Clean done me block! I never been so shy.
Not since I was a tiny little cub,
An' run the rabbit to the corner pub--
Wot time the Summer days wus dry an' 'ot--
Fer me ole pot.

Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft,
An' chucked orf at 'em like a phonergraft!
Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o' speech.
But, 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach!
The sweetest in the barrer! Spare me days,
I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways.
The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair!...
Oh, gimme air!

I dunno 'ow I done it in the end.
I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend;
An' tried ter play at 'andies in the park,
A thing she wouldn't sight. Aw, it's a nark!
I gotter swear when I think wot a mug
I must 'a' seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug
That promise that she give me fer the beach.
The bonzer peach!

Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by
On ledding feet. I wish't they'd do a guy.
I dunno'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak,
An' make that meet wiv 'er fer Sundee week!
But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do
When 'e's all out...She's gorn, when I come-to.
I'm yappin' to me cobber uv me mash....
I've done me dash!

'Er name's Doreen....An' me-that thort I knoo
The ways uv tarts, an' all that smoogin' game!
An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few?
Yet some'ow...I dunno. It ain't the same.
I carn't tell WOT it is; but, all I know,
I've dropped me bundle--an' I'm glad it's so.
Fer when I come ter think uv wot I been....
'Er name's Doreen.



III. The Stoush o' Day


Ar, these is 'appy days! An' 'ow they've flown--
Flown like the smoke of some inchanted fag;
Since dear Doreen, the sweetest tart I've known,
Passed me the jolt that made me sky the rag.
An' ev'ry golding day floats o'er a chap
Like a glad dream of some celeschil scrap.

Refreshed wiv sleep Day to the mornin' mill
Comes jauntily to out the nigger, Night.
Trained to the minute, confident in skill,
'E swaggers in the East, chock-full o' skite;
Then spars a bit, an' plugs Night on the point.
Out go the stars; an' Day 'as jumped the joint.

The sun looks up, an' wiv a cautious stare,
Like some crook keekin' o'er a winder sill
To make dead cert'in everythink is square,
'E shoves 'is boko o'er an Eastern 'ill,
Then rises, wiv 'is dial all a-grin,
An' sez, "'Ooray! I knoo that we could win!"

Sure of 'is title then, the champeen Day
Begins to put on dawg among 'is push,
An', as he mooches on 'is gaudy way,
Drors tribute from each tree an' flow'r an' bush.
An', w'ile 'e swigs the dew in sylvan bars,
The sun shouts insults at the sneakin' stars.

Then, lo! the push o' Day rise to applaud;
An' all 'is creatures clamour at 'is feet
Until 'e thinks'imself a little gawd,
An' swaggers on an' kids 'imself a treat.
The w'ile the lurkin' barrackers o' Night
Sneak in retreat an' plan another fight.

On thro' the hours, triumphant, proud an' fit,
The champeen marches on 'is up'ard way,
Till, at the zenith, bli'me! 'E-is-IT!
And all the world bows to the Boshter Day.
The jealous Night speeds ethergrams thro' space
'Otly demandin' terms, an' time, an' place.

A wile the champeen scorns to make reply;
'E's taken tickets on 'is own 'igh worth;
Puffed up wiv pride, an' livin' mighty 'igh,
'E don't admit that Night is on the earth.
But as the hours creep on 'e deigns to state
'E'll fight for all the earth an' 'arf the gate.

Late afternoon...Day feels 'is flabby arms,
An' tells 'imself 'e don't seem quite the thing.
The 'omin' birds shriek clamorous alarms;
An' Night creeps stealthily to gain the ring.
But see! The champeen backs an' fills, becos
'E doesn't feel the Boshter Bloke 'e was.

Time does a bunk as us-u-al, nor stays
A single instant, e'en at Day's be'est.
Alas, the 'eavy-weight's 'igh-livin' ways
'As made 'im soft, an' large around the vest.
'E sez 'e's fat inside; 'e starts to whine;
'E sez 'e wants to dror the colour line.

Relentless nigger Night crawls thro' the ropes,
Advancin' grimly on the quakin' Day,
Whose noisy push, shorn of their 'igh-noon 'opes,
Wait, 'ushed an' anxious, fer the comin' fray.
And many lusty barrackers of noon
Desert 'im one by one--traitors so soon!

'E's out er form! 'E 'asn't trained enough!
They mark their sickly champeen on the stage,
An' narked, the sun, 'is backer, in a huff,
Sneaks outer sight, red in the face wiv rage.
W'ile gloomy roosters, they 'oo made the morn
Ring wiv 'is praises, creep to bed forlorn.


All faint an' groggy grows the beaten Day;
'E staggers drunkenly about the ring;
An owl 'oots jeerin'ly across the way,
An' bats come out to mock the fallin' King.
Now, wiv a jolt, Night spreads 'im on the floor,
An' all the west grows ruddy wiv 'is gore.

A single, vulgar star leers from the sky
An' in derision, rudely mutters, "Yah!"
The moon, Night's conkerbine, comes glidin' by
An' laughs a 'eartless, silvery "Ha-ha!"
Scorned, beaten, Day gives up the 'opeless fight,
An' drops 'is bundle in the lap o' Night.

* * * * * * * *


So goes each day, like some celeschil mill,
E'er since I met that shyin' little peach.
'Er bonzer voice! I 'ear its music still,
As when she guv that promise fer the beach.
An', square an' all, no matter 'ow yeh start,
The commin end of most of us is--Tart.



IV. Doreen


"I wish't yeh menat it, Bill." Oh, 'ow me 'eart
Went out to 'er that evnin' on the beach.
I knew she weren't no ordinary tart,
My little peach!

To 'ear 'er voice! Its gentle sorter tone,
Like soft dream-music of some Dago band.
An' me all out; an' 'oldin' in me own
'Er little 'and.
An' 'ow she blushed! O, strike! it was divine
The way she raised 'er shinin' eyes to mine.

'Er eyes! Soft in the moon; such BOSHTER eyes!
An' when they sight a bloke...O, spare me days!
'E goes all loose inside; such glamour lies
In 'er sweet gaze.
It makes 'im all ashamed uv wot 'e's been
To look inter the eyes of my Doreen.

* * * *


The wet sands glistened, an' the gleamin' moon
Shone yeller on the sea, all streakin' down.
A band was playin' some soft, dreamy choon;