Page:The Yellow Book - 02.djvu/122

100 And it's often very cold and very wet;
 * And my missis stitches towels for a hunks;

And the Pillar'd Halls is half of it to let—
 * Three rooms about the size of travelling trunks.

And we cough, the wife and I, to dislocate a sigh,
 * When the noisy little kids are in their bunks.

But you'll never hear her do a growl, or whine,
 * For she's made of flint and roses very odd;

And I've got to cut my meaning rather fine
 * Or I'd blubber, for I'm made of greens and sod:

So p'rhaps we are in hell for all that I can tell,
 * And lost and damned and served up hot to God.

I ain't blaspheming, Mr. Silvertongue;
 * I'm saying things a bit beyond your art:

Of all the rummy starts you ever sprung
 * Thirty bob a week's the rummiest start!

With your science and your books and your the'ries about spooks,
 * Did you ever hear of looking in your heart?

I didn't mean your pocket, Mr.; no!
 * I mean that having children and a wife

With thirty bob on which to come and go
 * Isn't dancing to the tabor and the fife;

When it doesn't make you drink, by Heaven, it makes you think,
 * And notice curious items about life!

I step into my heart and there I meet
 * A god-almighty devil singing small,

Rh