"A little game uv Bridge," sez Peter Begg,
"Would be more decent like, an' p'r'aps a keg
Uv somethin' if the 'ero's feelin' dry.
But this 'ere darncin'! Be the Hokey Fly,
These selfish women never thinks at all
About the guest; they only wants the ball.
"Now, cards," sez Begg, "amuses ev'ry one.
An' then our soldier guest could 'ave 'is fun
If 'e'd lost both 'is legs. It makes me sick—
'Ere! Don't yeh spread that candle-grease too thick.
Yeh're wastin' it; an' us men 'as to buy
Enough for nonsense, be the Hokey Fly!"
Begg, 'e ain't never keen on wastin' much.
"Peter," I sez, "it's you that needs a crutch.
Why don't yeh get a wife, an' settle down?"
'E looks reel fierce, an' answers, with a frown,
"Do you think I am goin' to be rooked
For 'arf me tucker, jist to get it cooked?"
I lets it go at that, an' does me job;
An' when a little later on I lob
Along the 'omeward track, down by Flood's gate
I meet ole Digger Smith, an' stops to state
Me views about the weather an' the war. . . .
'E tells me Jim gets 'ere nex' day, at four.
