by Edgar Albert Guest
You can tyke h'it from me, 'e's as cool as a cucumber,
Never goes balmy h'or loses 'is 'ead,
Nothing h'at all h'ever robs 'im of slumber;
Once when I told 'im 'is rich h'aunt was dead,
'E looked h'at me blandly,
H'and stryngely h'and grandly,
H'and stroked 'is moustache as though 'e 'adn't 'eard;
Flicked a speck h'off 'is coat,
H'and then cleared h'out 'is throat,
H'and put on 'is topper, remarking: "My word!"
Cool h'as an h'oyster along h'in December---
Once h'I was riding with 'im h'in a tryne,
The detyles h'I cannot h'exactly remember,
But something went wrong with th' bally h'old line.
There cyme a great crash,
H'and a 'orrible smash;
H'I shouted at once: "Something h'orful's h'ocurred!"
'E 'eard women crying,
H'and looked h'at the dying,
H'and cooly survying the scene, said: "My word!"
Larst week 'is h'old 'omestead was burned down to h'ashes,
H'and while h'it was burning they notified 'im;
The firemen were shouting h'and myking mad dashes
To resue 'is wife, but their charnces were slim;
At larst through the smoke
There h'appeared h'a bryve bloke
With 'is wife h'in 'is arms, h'an' they slowly descended;
Then did 'e go dotty
With h'ectasy? Not 'e---
'E merely remarked: "O my word, that h'is splendid!"
Last updated January 14, 2019