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Poor, 'urt Doreen! My tender bit o' fluff!
Ar, men don't understand; they're fur too rough;
Their ways is fur too coarse wiv lovin' tarts;
They never gives 'em sympathy enough.
They treats 'em 'arsh; they tramples on their 'earts;
Becos their own crool 'earts is leather-tough.
She sung a song; an' orl them bitter things
That chewin' over lovers' quarrels brings
Guv place to thorts of sorrer an' remorse.
Like when some dilly punter goes an' slings
'Is larst, lone deener on some stiffened 'orse,
An' learns them vain regrets wot 'urts an' stings.
'Twas at a beano where I lobs along
To drown them memories o' fancied wrong.
I swears I never knoo that she'd be there.
But when I met 'er eye—O 'Struth 'twas strong!
'Twas bitter strong, that jolt o' dull despair!
'Er look o' scorn!… An' then, she sung a song.
The choon was one o' them sad, mournful things
That ketch yeh in the bellers 'ere, and brings
Tears to yer eyes. The words was uv a tart
'Go's trackin' wiv a silly coot 'oo slings
'Er love aside, an' breaks 'er tender 'eart…
But 'twasn't that; it was the way she sings.
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