_Refrain_ (_throaty, but tender_). She’s only a little Plebeian! And I’m a Patrician swell! But she’s as sweet as Aurora, and how I adore her, No eloquence ever can tell! Only a fried-fish vend-ar! Selling her saucers of whilks, [_Almost defiant stress on the word “whilks.”_ But, for me, she’s as slend-ar--far more true and tend-ar, Than if she wore satins and silks! [_The grammar of the last two lines is shaky, but the Lion-Comique must try to put up with that, and, after all, does sincere emotion ever stop to think about grammar? If it does, Music-hall audiences don’t--which is the main point._ _Second Verse._ I longed before her little feet to grovel in the gutter: I vowed, unless I won her as a wife, ’twould drive me mad! Until at last a shy consent I coaxed her lips to utter, For she dallied with her Anglo-Dutch, and whispered, “Speak to Dad!” _Refrain_--For she’s only a little Plebeian, &c. _Third Verse._ I called upon her sire, and found him lowly born, but brawny, A noble type, when sober, of the British artisan; I grasped his honest hand, and didn’t mind its being horny: “Behold!” I cried, “a suitor for your daughter, Mary Ann!” _Refrain_--Though she’s only a little Plebeian, &c. _Fourth Verse._ “You ask me, gov’nor, to resign,” said he, “my only treasure, And so a toff her fickle heart away from me has won!” He turned to mask his manly woe behind a pewter measure-- Then, breathing blessings through the beer, he said; “All right, my son! _Refrain_--If she’s only a little Plebeian, And you’re a Patrician swell,”--&c. _Fifth Verse._ (_The author flatters himself that, in quiet sentiment and homely pathos he has seldom done anything finer than the two succeeding stanzas._) Next I sought my noble father in his old ancestral castle, And at his gouty foot my love’s fond offering I laid-- A simple gift of shellfish, in a neat brown-paper parcel! “Ah, Sir!” I cried, “if you could know, you’d love my little maid!” _Refrain_--True, she’s only a little Plebeian, &c. _Sixth Verse._ Beneath his shaggy eyebrows soon I saw a tear-drop twinkle; That artless present overcame his stubborn Norman pride! And when I made him taste a whilk, and try a periwinkle, His last objections vanished--so she’s soon to be my bride! _Refrain_--Ah! she’s only a little Plebeian, &c. _Seventh Verse._ Now heraldry’s a science that I haven’t studied much in, But I mean to ask the College--if it’s not against their rules-- That three periwinkles proper may be quartered on our ’scutcheon, With a whilk regardant, rampant, on an oyster-knife, all gules! _Refrain_--As she’s only a little Plebeian, &c.