  By FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE. Fifteen shillings—no more, sir— The wages I weekly touch. For labor steady and sore, sir, It isn’t a deal too much; Your money has wings in the city, And vanishes left and right, But I hand a crown to Kitty As sure as Saturday night. Bless her, my own, my wee, She’s better than gold to me! I must be honest and simple, I must be manly and true, Or how could I pinch her dimple, Or gaze in her frank eyes’ blue? I feel, not anger, but pity, When workmates go to the bad; I say, “They’ve never a Kitty— They’d all keep square if they had.” Bless her, my own, my wee, She’s better than gold to me! One day she will stand at the altar, Modest, and white, and still, And forth from her lips will falter The beautiful, low, “I will.” Our home shall be bright and pretty As ever a poor man’s may, And my soft little dove, my Kitty, Shall nest in my heart for aye. Bless her, my own, my wee, She’s better than gold to me! decorative line
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