The Fate of a Harpist

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 till 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.