Go sailin' by, an' turnin' on his phiz
The glarssy eye--fer bein' wot 'e is.


I've watched 'em walkin' in the gardings 'ere
Cliners from orfices an' shops an' such;
The sorter skirts I dursn't come too near,
Or dare to touch.
An, when I see the kind er looks they carst...
Gorstrooth! Wot is the use o' me, I arst?

Wot wus I slung 'ere for? An wot's the good
Of yearnin' after any ideel tart?...
Ar, if a bloke wus only understood!
'E's got a 'eart:
'E's got a soul inside 'im, poor or rich.
But wot's the use, when 'Eaven's crool'd 'is pitch?

I tells meself some day I'll take a pull
An' look eround fer some good, stiddy job,
An' cut the push fer good an' all; I'm full
Of that crook mob!
An', in some Spring the fucher 'olds in store,
I'll cop me prize an' long in vain no more.

The little winds is stirrin' in the trees,
Where little birds is chantin' lovers' lays;
The music of the sorft an' barmy breeze...
Aw, spare me days!
If this 'ere dilly feelin' doesn't stop