Hitched

An'—wilt—yeh—take—this—woman—fer—to—be

  Yer—wedded—wife?— . . . O, strike me!  Will I wot?

Take 'er?  Doreen?  'E stan's there arstin' me!

  As if 'e thort per'aps I'd rather not!

  Take 'er? 'E seemed to think 'er kind was got

Like cigarette-cards, fer the arstin'. Still,

  I does me stunt in this 'ere hitchin' rot,

An' speaks me piece: "Righto!" I sez, "I will."

"I will," I sez. An' tho' a joyful shout

  Come from me bustin' 'eart—I know it did—

Me voice got sorter mangled comin' out,

  An' makes me whisper like a frightened kid.

  "I will," I squeaks. An' I'd 'a' give a quid

To 'ad it on the quite, wivout this fuss,

  An' orl the starin' crowd that Mar 'ad bid

To see this solim hitchin' up of us.

"Fer—rich-er—er—fer—poorer." So 'e bleats.

  "In—sick-ness—an'—in—'ealth," . . . An' there I stands,

An' dunno 'arf the chatter I repeats,

  Nor wot the 'ell to do wiv my two 'ands.

  But 'e don't 'urry puttin' on our brands—

This white-'aired pilot-bloke—but gives it lip,

  Dressed in 'is little shirt, wiv frills an' bands.

"In sick-ness—an'—in—" Ar! I got the pip!

An' once I missed me turn; an' Ginger Mick,

  'Oo's my best-man, 'e ups an' beefs it out.

"I will!" 'e 'owls; an' fetches me a kick.

  "Your turn to chin!" 'e tips wiv a shout.

  An' there I'm standin' like a gawky lout.

(Aw, spare me! But I seemed to be all 'ands!)

  An' wonders wot 'e's goin' crook about,

Wiv 'arf a mind to crack 'im where 'e stands.

O, lumme! But ole Ginger was a trick!

  Got up regardless fer the solim rite.

('E 'awks the bunnies when 'e toils, does Mick)

  An' twice I saw 'im feelin' fer a light

  To start a fag; an' trembles lest 'e might,

Thro' force o' habit like. 'E's nervis too;

  That's plain, fer orl 'is air o' bluff an' skite;

An' jist as keen as me to see it thro'.

But, 'struth, the wimmnin! 'Ow they love this frill!

  Fer Auntie Liz, an' Mar, o' course, wus there;

An' Mar's two uncles' wives, an' Cousin Lil,

  An' 'arf a dozen more to grin and stare.

  I couldn't make me 'ands fit anywhere!

I felt like I wus up afore the Beak!

  But my Doreen she never turns a 'air,

Nor misses once when it's 'er turn to speak.

Ar, strike! No more swell marridges fer me!

  It seems a blinded year afore 'e's done.

We could 'a' fixed it in the registree

  Twice over 'fore this cove 'ad 'arf begun.

  I s'pose the wimmin git some sorter fun

Wiv all this guyver, an 'is nibs's shirt.

  But, seems to me, it takes the bloomin' bun,

This stylish splicin' uv a bloke an' skirt.

"To—be—yer—weddid—wife—" Aw, take a pull!

  Wot in the 'ell's 'e think I come there for?

An' so 'e drawls an' drones until I'm full,

  An' wants to do a duck clean out the door.

An' yet, fer orl 'is 'igh-falutin' jor,

  Ole Snowy wus a reel good-meanin' bloke.

  If 'twasn't fer the 'oly look 'e wore

Yeh'd think 'e piled it on jist fer a joke.

An', when at last 'e shuts 'is little book,

  I 'eaves a sigh that nearly bust me vest.

But 'Eavens! Now 'ere's muvver goin' crook!

  An' sobbin' awful on me manly chest!

  (I wish she'd give them water-works a rest.)

"My little girl!" she 'owls. "O, treat 'er well!

  She's young—too young to leave 'er muvver's nest!"

"Orright, ole chook," I nearly sez. Oh, 'ell!

An' then we 'as a beano up at Mar's—

  A slap-up feed, wiv wine an' two big geese.

Doreen sits next ter me, 'er eyes like stars.

  O, 'ow I wished their blessed yap would cease!

  The Parson-bloke 'e speaks a little piece,

That makes me blush an' 'ang me silly 'ead.

  'E sez 'e 'opes our lovin' will increase—

I likes that pilot fer the things 'e said.

'E sez Doreen an' me is in a boat,

  An' sailin' on the matrimonial sea.

'E sez as 'ow 'e hopes we'll allus float

  In peace an' joy, from storm an' danger free.

  Then muvver gits to weepin' in 'er tea;

An' Auntie Liz sobs like a winded colt;

  An' Cousin Lil comes 'round an' kisses me;

Until I feel I'll 'ave to do a bolt.

Then Ginger gits end-up an' makes a speech—

  ('E'd 'ad a couple, but 'e wasn't shick.)

"My cobber 'ere," 'e sez, "'as copped a peach!

  Of orl the barrer-load she is the pick!

  I 'opes 'e won't fergit 'is pals too quick

As wus 'is frien's in olden days, becors,

  I'm trusting later on," sez Ginger Mick,

"To celebrate the chris'nin'." . . . 'Oly wars!

At last Doreen an' me we gits away,

  An' leaves 'em doin' nothin' to the scram

(We're honey-moonin' down beside the Bay.)

  I gives a 'arf a dollar to the man

  Wot drives the cab; an' like two kids we ran

To ketch the train—Ah, strike! I could 'a' flown!

  We gets the carridge right agen the van.

She whistles, jolts, an' starts . . . An' we're alone!

Doreen an' me! My precious bit o' fluff!

  Me own true weddid wife! . . . An' we're alone!

She seems so frail, an' me so big an' rough —

  I dunno wot this feelin' is that's grown

  Inside me 'ere that makes me feel I own

A thing so tender like I fear to squeeze

  Too 'ard fer fear she'll break . . . Then, wiv a groan

I starts to 'ear a coot call, "Tickets, please!"

You could 'a' outed me right on the spot!

  I wus so rattled when that porter spoke.

Fer, 'struth! Them tickets I 'ad fair forgot!

  But 'e fist laughs, an' takes it fer a joke.

  'We must ixcuse," 'e sez, "new-married folk."

An' I pays up, an' grins, an' blushes red….

  It shows 'ow married life improves a bloke:

If I'd bin single I'd 'a' punched 'is head!