While The Billy BoilsSearchMy love’s not like the lilies fair,And all that sort of thing;Although her voice is rich and rareI seldom hear her sing.Within a restaurant she worksWherein I daily dine;Towards the customer she jerksThe stew of Auld Lang Syne.I thought her neat, I thought her sweet,Compare with her could none,Until one day I heard her bleat“Hash, one!”
I daily dine there, as I said,I watch her form divine,And as she cuts the daily breadI would that she were mine.The dusty floor she sweeps and wets,The cruet stands she cleans;She folds the flimsy serviettesAnd garnishes the greens.Just such an angel as she seemsI’d like my bride to be,Excepting when she harshly screams,“Soup three!”
For many weeks I passed the placeWhere now she reigns as queen;I marked her sweet angelic face,Her garb severe and clean.“Here is an angel in disguise!”Said I in ecstasy;Her fairy figure, hair and eyes,Were all the world to me.The window ope’d and then and thereShe gabbled to my griefUpon the onion-scented air,“Roast beef!”
Methought it could not be the girlWho breathed that vocal blot;From out those rows of shining pearlSuch harshness issued not.Next day I saw her smiling sweet(The window now was closed),I could not even smell the meat,Even the onions dozed.Next day I entered, and I satIn love’s dream half awake,And heard amid a flare of fat,“Stewed steak!”
I’ve often tried to think that sheAnd that harsh voice are twain,For when she softly speaks to meIt lilts a love refrain.She sweetly croons of souls and fatesWhen she is by my side,When ord’ring hash she imitatesA tug-boat on the tide.In love’s own sympathetic spellMy heart responsive thuds;Until I hear her raucous yell —“Boiled spuds!”
So does it ever seem to beWhen we an angel meet,Our heart’s romance, our fancy free,Abides in Sordid-street.The bell-like voice that in our earRecalls the cooing doveIn rage or duty rises clearAbove the crash of grub.The dainty mouth that’s curved to kissBeside a languorous river,Should not through cabbage vapor hiss —“Fried Liver!”