Pilot Cove

"Young friend," 'e sez . . . Young friend! Well, spare me days! Yeh'd think I wus 'is own white 'eaded boy - The queer ole finger, wiv 'is gentle ways. "Young friend," 'e sez, "I wish't yeh bofe great joy." The langwidge that them parson blokes imploy Fair tickles me. The way 'e bleats an' brays! "Young friend," 'e sez. "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 o' 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 spitichuil 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 yet 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'en in the days when she's no longer fair She's still yet 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 and' 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' I 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 starcher 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 - and 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 and' 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.