172
MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM."
The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now
Blows on my cheek—(don't you feel something, sir?)
You 'll tell?
Blows on my cheek—(don't you feel something, sir?)
You 'll tell?
Go tell, then! Who the devil cares
What such a rowdy chooses to . . .
Aie—aie—aie!
Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir!
Ch—ch!
What such a rowdy chooses to . . .
Aie—aie—aie!
Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir!
Ch—ch!
Well, sir, I hope you 've done it now!
Oh Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday,
When your departed mother spoke those words
Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much,
You gave me—(very kind it was of you)
These shirt-studs—(better take them back again,
Please, sir!)—yes, little did I think so soon
A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much
Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends
Into an angry gentleman!
Oh Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday,
When your departed mother spoke those words
Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much,
You gave me—(very kind it was of you)
These shirt-studs—(better take them back again,
Please, sir!)—yes, little did I think so soon
A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much
Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends
Into an angry gentleman!
Though, 'twas wrong.
I don't contest the point; your anger 's just:
I don't contest the point; your anger 's just:
