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C J Dennis - `Ave a `eart!
Work rating: Low

"`Ere!  `Ave a `eart!" `e sez.  "Why, love a duck!
   A `uman bein` ain`t a choppin` block!
There ain`t no call fer you to go an` chuck
   A man about when `e `as took the knock.
Gaw!  Do yeh want to bust `im all apart!
      `Ere!  `Ave a `eart!

"Aw, `ave a `eart!" `e weeps.  "A fight`s a fight;
   But, strike me bandy, this is bloody war!
It`s murder!  An` you got no blasted right
   To arst a `uman man to come fer more.
`E `ad no chance with you right frum the start.
      Aw, `ave a `eart!

"Yeh`ve pulped `is dile," `e whines; "yeh`ve pinched `is gun;
   Yeh`ve bunged `is eye `an bashed in `arf `is teeth.
`Struth!  Ain`t yeh satisfied with wot yeh`ve done?
   Or are you out to fit `im fer a wreath?
The man`s `arf dead a`ready!  Wot`s yer dart?
      Say, `ave a `eart!"

I never did `ear sich a bloke to squeal
   About a trifle.  This `ere pal uv Spike`s
Don`t seem to `ave the stummick fer a deal
   Uv solid stoush: rough work don`t soot `is likes.
`E ain`t done much but blather frum the start,
      "`Ere `ave a `eart!"

A rat-face coot `e is, with rat-like nerves
   That`s got all jangled with ixceedin` fright,
While I am `andin` Spike wot `e deserves.
   But twice `e tried to trip me in the fight,
The little skunk, now sobbin` like a tart,
      "Aw, `ave a `eart!"

This `ere`s the pretty pitcher in Ah Foo`s
   Back privit room: Spite Wegg, well on the floor,
Is bleedin` pretty, with a bonzer bruise
   Paintin` one eye, an` `arf `is clobber tore.
While me, the conq`rin` `ero, stan`s above
      `Owlin` me love.

The rat-face mutt is dancin` up an` down;
   Ah Foo is singin` jazz in raw Chinee;
The parson`s starin` at me with a frown,
   As if `e thort sich things could never be;
An` I`m some bloke `e`s but `arf rekernised
      `E`s `ipnertised.

Foo`s furniture is scattered any`ow,
   Artisic like, in bits about the floor.
An` `arf a dozen blokes, drawn by the row,
   Nosey but nervis, `overs near the door.
I ain`t no pitcher orf no chocklit box.
      I`ve took some knocks.

I ain`t no pitcher.  But - 0 Glory! - But
   Ther`s dicky-birds awarblin` in me soul!
To think that I ain`t lost that upper-cut!
   An` my left-`ook`s still with me, good an` whole.
I feared me punch was dead; but I was wrong.
      Me `eart`s all song!

Then, as Spike makes a move, I raised me mits
   Fearin` a foul; an` Rat-face does `is block.
`E loosens up a string uv epi-tits
   That seem to jolt the parson with a shock.
Filthy an` free they was, make no mistakes.
      Then Snowy wakes.

All through the fight `e `ad seemed kind uv dazed,
   Ubsorbin` it like some saint in a dream.
But now `e straightened up, `is ole eyes blazed
   An`, as the filth flowed in a red-`ot stream,
`Is voice blew in like cool winds frum the south:
      "Shut that foul mouth!"

"Shut your vile mouth, or, by the Lord! - "`Is `and
   Went up, an` there was anger on `is face.
But Rat-face ducked.  `E weren`t the man to stand
   Agin that figger uv avengin` grace.
Ducked, or `e might uv stopped one `oly smite
      Frum Snowy`s right.

"Young friend," `E turns to me.  An` then I `ear
   A yell: "The cops!  The cops is in the Lane!
"Parson," I sez, "we are de tropp, I fear.
   Mid `appier scenes I`ll vencher to ixplain.
`Ang to me `and, an` wave no fond farewell;
      But run like `ell!"

Some say wrong livin` reaps no good reward.
   Well, I dunno.  If I `ad not cut loose
In Spadgers, in them days long, long deplored,
   `Ow could I knowed the run uv Foo`s caboose?
That back-way entrance, used fer Chiner`s friends`
      Un`oly ends.

Out by a green door; down a flight uv stairs;
   Along a passige; up another flight;
Through `arf a dozen rooms, broadcastin` scares
   To twenty yellow men, pea-green with fright;
Me an` the parson, through that `eathen land,
      Trips `and in `and.

Out uv dark corners, voices `ere an` there
   Break sudden with a jabberin` sing-song,
Like magpies flutin` on the mornin` air.
   We pays no `eed to them, but plug along,
Twistin` an` turnin` through them secret ways,
      Like in a maze.

I bust a bolted door.  The parson gasps:
   The air inside is `eavy with the drug.
A fat Chow goggles at the broken hasps;
   Another dreams un`eedin` on a rug.
Out by the other door-past piles uv fruit -
      `Ow we did scoot!

Red lanterns - lacquer-work - brass pots - strange smells -
   Silk curtains - slippers - baskets - ginger jars -
A squealin` Chinee fiddle-tinklin` bells -
   Queer works uv art - filth - fowls - ducks - iron bars
To winders - All pass by us in a stream,
      Like `twuz a dream.

Down to a cellar; up agen, an` out -
   Bananers - brandy jars - we rush pell-mell,
Turnin` to left, to right, then round about
   (The parson, after, said it seemed like `ell)
Through one last orful pong, then up a stair
      Into clean air.

We`re in a little yard; no thing to stop
   Our flight to freedom but a fence.  "Now, jump!"
I grabs `is rev`rince, `eaves `im to the top,
   An` bungs me own frame over with a bump.
"Dam!" sez the parson - or it sounded so -
      But I dunno.

Seems that `is coat got `itched up on a nail.
   `E jerks it free an` gently comes to earth.
"Peter the `ermit`s `ome!" I sez.  "All `ail!"
   An` makes punk noises indicatin` mirth.
The parson, `e walks on, as still as death.
      Seems out o` breath.

I walk beside `im; but `e sez no word.
   To put it straight, I`m feelin` pretty mean -
Feelin` a bit ashamed uv wot`s occurred -
   But still, I never planned to `ave no scene
With Spike. I didn`t start the flamin` row,
      Not any`ow.

I tells `im so.  But still `e never spoke.
   I arsts `im `ow else could the thing be done.
I tells `im straight I`d let no flamin` bloke
   Take pot shots at me with no flamin` gun.
`E stops, an` pats me shoulder with `is `and:
      "I understand.

"Young friend." `Is face is orful stern an` grave.
   "The brawl was not your seekin`, we`ll suppose.
But does it `elp this girL we wish to save?
   `Ow can sich mad brutality serve Rose?
May be, in anger, you fergot, young friend,
      Our Christian end?"

"Not on yer life!" I tells `im.  "Spike`s in soak,
   Whether the cops `ave got `im now or not.
An` that removes one interferin` bloke
   Wot `ad a mind to queer our `oly plot.
Tomorrer we`ll find Rose, an` work good works
      With gentler lurks."

"Gentler?" `e sez.  "I `ope so." Still `e`s grave.
   "The ways uv `Eaven`s strange," `e sez, "an` yours
Is stranger still.  Yet all may work to save
   One strugglin` soul, if `Eaven`s grace endures."
`E`s dreadful solemn.  "I must own I feel
      Grieved a great deal.

"Your face," `e sez, "is very badly cut -"
   "Now, look," I chips.  "`Old on.  Let`s git this right.
`Oo was it tried to stoush that rat-face mutt?
   `Oo was it barracked for me in the fight?
`Oo was it used that word uv evul sense
      Up on that fence?"

"Young friend!" . . . Indignant?  `Struth!  I see `im try
   To keep reel stern.  But soon I rekernise
The little twinkle stealin` in `is eye,
   That won`t keep out, no matter `ow `e tries.
An` then - `is twitchin` lips smile wide apart:
      "Aw, `ave a `eart!"
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