THE JILTED SHOE-BLACK
 
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Ten years I've been a-trotting out to do a nab
And just as I was goin'werry strong
In fact, next year I meant to pop the question
When anuver bloke wi'money comed along
Blow me if he didn't go and splice 'er
Now they're livin'classy up the West
And when I finks 'ow kind I've been to 'er
Well, that's wot keeps a-stickin'in my chest.

Chorus: I suppose she won't remember all the cash I said I'd spend
When I walked 'er off to 'Ampstead all the way
I suppose she won'remember 'ow I used to pawn 'er watch
And promise I would take 'er to the play
Today I met 'er sudding, and I said, 'Ow are yer Liz?'
She looked at me and then turned up 'er nose
Me who'd got the 'ome, except the furniture and things
She won't remember that now, I suppose.

I've seed 'im takin''er to a feeater
Wiv a Sunday look about 'is Friday shirt
She'd got long-stockinged gloves up to 'er arm-tops
And a Pullman trian behind 'er bloomin'skirt
And arter tea I've seed 'im drive to dinner
To Frasca-tart-i's rest-er-wrong or club
Where Spanish fiddlers plays Italian 'ornpipes
And German Frenchmen dishes up 'er grub.

Chorus: I suppose she won't remember wearing pearlies down 'er frock
When I bought 'er once a dress of lovely red
Well, it wasn't bought exactly, but I know I got the stuff
'Cos I took the vallance off my muvver's bed
I suppose she won't remember 'ow I stood 'er roasted pork
That's rich enough, good goodness only knows
And 'ow I ate 'er share meself for fear it made 'er ill
She won't remember that now, I suppose.

She's goin'up to Court to see the Queen, to
Be representeated, so they say
Wiv a what-d'ya-call-it stuck upon 'er napper
A diamond ta-ra-ra (crying) boom-de-ay
I've lost 'er all froo bein'soft roed 'earted
Kindness to a gal no more I'll try
But if 'e comes up to me to 'ave a boot clean
I'll bet 'e gets a boot clean in the eye.

Chorus: I suppose she won't remember when she's goin'up to Court
That down a court she's left me on the shelf
I suppose she won't remember when she's wearin'precious stones
I've broke a precious lot of stones meself
I'm sick and broken-'earted froo contrary woman's ways
Froo grief I'm growing out of all my clothes
Me who made this box to fit 'er little Daisy roots
She won't remember that now, I suppose.

 
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Written by Hal Wright & Edgar Bateman - Composed by Fred W. Leigh - 1903
Performed by Gus Elen (1862-1940)
 
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