He wanted me to tear me ’ands to bits Along o’ the box-makers, ’stead of which I took and bought a basket, struck a pitch To sell me flowers by the Hotel Ritz. I like ’is cheek. It isn’t ’im wot sits Working in darkness till your fingers itch And ’arf your side is broken with a stitch-- ’Im swanking in ’is blessed epaulittes! Nor I don’t care, not what you might say care If ’e’s gone orf. Not that I’d reely mind If, ’earing that I’d got a bit to spare, He come back sudden. I should act refined, Pin ’im ’is flower in with me ’and quite steady And then say proud-like, “Why if it ain’t Freddy.” THE BUN-SHOP. O damn those marble tables: makes me larf To think I’ve finished with them. I believe If you rubbed hard on each one with your sleeve, You’d find cut on them some gel’s epitaph. They look like tombstones, don’t they? in a row Quietly waiting in a mason’s yard. Seein’ them there cruel and white and hard One might ha’ guessed, I think, how things would go. But we don’t heed no warning, gels like me, And so I stayed, and now they’ve got my name Carved deep, with something written about shame For the next gel (when her turn comes) to see. One comfort though, if God damns us who fell He can’t find worse to ’urt us, not in ’Ell. THE FRIED FISH-SHOP. The upper clawses they don’t like the smell Nor they don’t need to. They can pay for food, But we who sometimes cawn’t, it does us good. Lord, what a life to ’ave fried fish to sell! Warm all day long and nuthin’ much to do And always a hot bit if you’re inclined. Shut all day Sundays and if you’ve a mind Always go out and pitch into a Jew. But wanting won’t mend ’oles up in your socks Nor cure that ’ungry feeling when you stands Clappin’ your stummick with your empty ’ands And thinking gently of a wooden box Where they will lay you at the parish charge Straight if you’re small and doubled if you’re large. THE STREETS BEHIND THE TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD. The quiet folk who live in Kensington Mothers of pleasant girls and worthy wives Living at ease their comfortable lives Don’t think what roots their homes are built upon, Don’t think, or wouldn’t listen if you shewed That beyond cure by love or change by hate Like hooded lepers at each corner wait, The streets behind the Tottenham Court Road. Row upon row the phantom houses stain The sweetness of the air and not a day Dies, but some woman’s child turns down that way Along those streets and is not seen again. And only God can in his mercy say Which is more cruel, Kensington or they. THE YORKSHIRE GREY.