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,