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 "A worker's hand," says she, reel fine, "An' marked with toil; but so is mine. We're just two toilers; let us shake. An' be good friends—for labour's sake."

I didn't dare to say no more, For fear of what she'd take me for— But just Good bye, an' turns away, Bustin' with things I had to say. I don't know how I got right home. The wonder was I didn't roam Off in the scrub, an' dream on there Of her with sunlight in her hair.

At home I looks around the place. An' sees the dirt's a fair disgrace; So takes an' tidies up a bit, An' has a shave; an' then I sit Beside my fire to have a think. But my old dog won't sleep a wink; He fools, an' whines, an' nudges me. Then all at once I thinks of tea.

I beg his pardon with a smile, An', talkin' to him all the while, I get it ready, tellin' him About that girl; but, "Shut up, Jim!"