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A Love Song

[A man at Sandringham (Vic.) was fined recently for throwing flower-pots at his wife.]

Do you remember, love, the years gone by,
   When, with full many a tender phrase and sweet,
You came a-wooing me with yearnful sigh,
   And fain would cast sweet blossoms at my feet?

For you were young, and I was young. Ah, me!
   And every blossom framed a tender thought,
And I was filled with bliss and maiden glee,
    For all those floral offerings you brought.

You vowed -- and, sweetheart, you have kept the vow --
   That, in the days the future held in store,
You'd strew my path with roses, then, as now,
   And fill my life with fragrance evermore.

Ay, sweetest, it is even as you said:
   That lover's vow has never been forgot;
You still throw blossoms, darling -- at my head,
   But, oh! dear heart, why leave them in the pot?  

First published in The Gadfly, 30 October 1907

In a recent court case the male defendant asked the Bench to consider, as man to man, the limits to the patience of the most tolerant husband, in certain circumstances.

There is women, yer Worship, of various kinds:
   An' some of 'em's fluffy a' foolish,
An' some is sispicious an' mean in their minds,
   An' others fair set-like an' mulish.
There is some, as I owns, is real kind -- tho' not many,
   As maybe yer Worship 'as coped with -- if any.

But wot can you do with a woman wot 'arps?
   I am arskin' the Bench, as a man an' a male --
Wot sticks to 'er subjeck an' cavils an' carps,
Wot won't be put orf it, but 'ammers an' 'arps
   Till you rock like a ship in a gale.
I'm a plain, placid man, an' me patience is vast;
But the patience of angels gits wobbly at last.

For she 'arps on me 'abits, she 'arps in me ears,
   She 'arps on me cricket an' listenin' in;
She 'arps an' she 'arps, till I'm full of strange fears;
   For I knows there's no end once I 'ear 'er begin.
So, am I to be blamed if I rise in me passion
   An' seek for to send 'er where 'arpin's the fashion?

For wot can you do with a woman wot 'arps?
   I slung 'er bokays while me 'anger was 'ot.
I was full to the teeth of 'er flats an' 'er sharps;
So I slung 'er bokays, while she 'ammers an' 'arps
   (An' them flowers was still in the pot.)
Well, I needn't say more; for she's told all the rest.
But I craves yer man' mercy; an' 'opes for the best.

First published in The Herald, 23 August 1934