I’m thinkin’ the Jumble Sale Saison
Is on us again.
For I’m seein’ notices all over the place.
I suppose theer’s good raison
For it, tho’ it’s not awful plain.
It seems to me tharrit’s jus’ an example
Of wan body’s loss bein’ another’s gain;
Tho’ it can’t be much loss
Gerrin’ rid of rubbish an’ dross.
Burrit bates all
How any ones the face
To ax gool for the stuff
When he see it on the stall
If the shirt I’m weerin’ is a sample!
Quy, it’s lek enough
To make ye lose faith in human nature:
An’ the gel that sowl’ it me
I thought she looked a gennal cr’ature,
She smiled at me so soncily.
What’s that ye say?
Quy didn’ I keep away?
An’ if I’m not thinkin’ much of it
Quy did I get a touch of it?
Well, ye see it was this way,
An’ I’m not tellin’ the word of a lie –
Ye know me I trus’. Honess as the day –
Hogh hogh, now! Somethin’ stuck in your thrut?
Tha’s a nasty cough!
Hev yer got some gurrin’ in yer eye?
Ye’re not laffin’, ye scut!
I’ll take me fut
To yer umptarrarra if ye scoff.
Ye mus’ admit I’m as sthrait as a die,
An’ I’d navar do nawthin’ funny
Even to make a lorra money.
Burrit’s money theer aftha, I know it all right.
So I thought, lek the widder, I’d give me mite
To the chapel Jumble
In case the’yd grumble
An’ say I was only hidin’ the fac’
An purtendin’ I hadn’ a rag to me back;
An’ me clo’es were allus showin’ big tears
Becos I was wan of the millionaires,
So I tuk all the rubbage I could fin’
An’ some bits an’ pieces.
An’ this an’ that:
A photograph of me sestha’s nieces
A book that was lent me by Passon Quine,
That plate of me uncle’s from Argentine,
An’ I parted with me Panama hat;
Which only goes to prove me p’int
That I wanted to help them all I could,
Tho’ I mus’ admit it gave me an ache
I did it all for the Chapal’s sake
An’ in givin’ I musn’ be foun’ behint
But avaryman mus’ see where I stood
It was a gesture of self-denial,
An’ all to the good –
An’ take that imp’rent grin of yer dial,
Ye lil imp of Belial!
Well, the averin’ came an’ I paid me whack,
An’ they all rushed in, with me in their thrack,
An’ they stormed the tables, marcy arrus,
Lek the sankalots at the gates of Paris.
An’ they pulled an’ h’ised
An’ they toore an’ they priced,
An’ they felt an’ they stretched
An’ they fought an’ they fetched
An they raffled for this an’ they raffled for that;
An’ they drew out the tickads from me Panama hat;
But I navar won nawthin’, jus’ my luck –
Tho’ the prizes were mighty maul
An’ not much to hev at all, at all,
At las’e I wasn’ sthruck;
Jus’ gimmicky muck!
An’ when it was over an’ shut the doore
They piled what was lef’ in a hape on the floore,
Aw my song, yessir, I could have swore
They finished up with moore
Than theer was to begin with.
So now nex’ week theer’s to be another,
For somewan else to heve the bother,
An’ all the rubbage that wasn’ sowl’
Will be passed on, or so I’m towl’;
An’ some that was bought at the Chapal Sale
Will go again, till the en’ of the tale.
Ye’ll be lucky indeed, of that no doubt,
Afthar was of these do’s, when ye go out
Ye won’t hev less than what ye went in with,
Aw, my, it’s sad when it comes to partin’,
But oul’ frien’s turn up again, that’s for sartin’;
An’ without any fail
At a Jumble sale.