“Young friend,” ’e sez . . . Yes, my Doreen an’ me
    We’re gettin’ hitched, all straight an’ on the square.
Fer when I torks about the registry—
    O ’oly wars! yeh should ’a’ seen ’er stare;
    “The registry?” she sez, “I wouldn’t dare!
I know a clergyman we’ll go an’ see” . . . 
            “Young friend,” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez. An’ then ’e chats me straight;
    An’ spouts of death, an’ ’ell, an’ mortal sins.
“You reckernize this step you contemplate
    Is grave?” ’e sez. An’ I jist stan’s an’ grins;
    Fer when I chips, Doreen she kicks me shins.
“Yes, very ’oly is the married state,
            Young friend,” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez. An’ then ’e mags a lot
    Of jooty an’ the spiritchuil life,
To which I didn’t tumble worth a jot.
    “I’m sure,” ’e sez, “as you will ’ave a wife
’Oo’ll ’ave a noble infl’ince on yer life.
’Oo is ’er gardjin?” I sez, “’Er ole pot”—
            “Young friend!” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez. “Oh fix yer thorts on ’igh!
    Orl marridges is registered up there!
An’ you must cleave unto ’er till yeh die,
    An’ cherish ’er wiv love an’ tender care.
    E’n in the days when she’s no longer fair
She’s still yer wife,” ’e sez. “Ribuck,” sez I.
            “Young friend!” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez—I sez, “Now, listen ’ere:
    This isn’t one o’ them impetchus leaps.
There ain’t no tart a ’undreth part so dear
    As ’er. She ’as me ’eart an’ soul fer keeps!”
    An’ then Doreen, she turns away an’ weeps;
But ’e jist smiles. “Yer deep in love, ’tis clear,
            Young friend,” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez—an’ tears wus in ’is eyes—
    “Strive ’ard. Fer many, many years I’ve lived.
An’ l kin but recall wiv tears an’ sighs
    The lives of some I’ve seen in marridge gived.”
    “My Gawd!” I sez. “I’ll strive as no bloke strivved!
Fer don’t I know I’ve copped a bonzer prize?”
            “Young friend,” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez. An’ in ’is gentle way,
    ’E pats the shoulder of my dear Doreen.
“I’ve solem’ized grand weddin’s in me day,
    But ’ere’s the sweetest little maid I’ve seen.
    She’s fit fer any man, to be ’is queen;
An’ you’re more forchinit than you kin say,
            Young friend,” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez . . . A queer ole pilot bloke,
    Wiv silver ’air. The gentle way ’e dealt
Wiv ’er, the soft an’ kindly way ’e spoke
    To my Doreen, ’ud make a statcher melt.
    I tell yer, square an’ all, I sorter felt
A kiddish kind o’ feelin’ like I’d choke . . . 
            “Young friend,” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez, “you two on Choosday week,
    Is to be joined in very ’oly bonds.
To break them vows I ’opes yeh’ll never seek;
    Fer I could curse them ’usbands ’oo absconds!”
    “I’ll love ’er till I snuff it,” I responds.
“Ah, that’s the way I likes to ’ear yeh speak,
            Young friend,” ’e sez.

“Young friend,” ’e sez—an’ then me ’and ’e grips
    “I wish’t yeh luck, you an’ yer lady fair.
Sweet maid.” An’ sof’ly wiv ’is finger-tips,
    ’E takes an’ strokes me cliner’s shinin’ ’air.
    An’ when I seen ’er standin’ blushin’ there,
I turns an’ kisses ’er, fair on the lips.
            “Young friend!” ’e sez.