And when we reach
The Brighton beach
It's sure to pour with rine
A pub is not
A 'appy spot
For us to set and drine
Yet there we set and tike our beer
And while awy the dy,
Though we don't 'ave words, no bloomin' fear
Mariar 'as 'er sy.
_Refrine--_
'Er langwidge is for sangwidges,
She's sorry that she cime;
The weather's wrong, 'er feather's wrong,
I 'as to tike the blime.
It's "'Arry" 'ere, and "'Arry" there,
And "'Arry, you're a bloomin' bear,"
And "'Arry, it's a shime"--
(_Spoken._)--Which is 'ard on a feller! And then we 'as
to ketch the bloomin' trine again, and she _do_ talk, but
never mind--
(_Brightly._)
We've 'ad a 'appy 'ollidy,
We gits 'ome all the sime.
--'Urry up, 'Arry!
* * * * *