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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
Well, after a time this Tommy was sent
To work on a farm that was called Renshent—
Jurby way, runnin' out on the shore,
Somewhere aback of the Ballamoore;
And a sandy sort of a place; but still
The farm was runnin' up to a hill
Slopin' south: and, just when you come
On the top, the brews went down like a plumb
To the shilley behind; no rocks at all,
Just clayey stuff, but as steep as a wall,
And the jackdaws workin' their holes in it clever,
The divils, bein' soft, you'll observe; but, however,
You know the sort of place I mean—
Snug, I can tell ye—Archie Cain
They were callin' the farmer—but come with the wife;
But what's the odds! dear bless my life!
Fairish plough-land—couldn' be beat,
I've heard, for turmits—a little wet
In the bottom, no doubt, a sort of a gaery,
But splendid for geese; not much of a dairy—
Well, you wouldn' expeck—just enough that would do
For themselves—a nice little meadow or two—
But it paid them well—that gaery piece—
As round as bollans! tremenjis geese!
To work on a farm that was called Renshent—
Jurby way, runnin' out on the shore,
Somewhere aback of the Ballamoore;
And a sandy sort of a place; but still
The farm was runnin' up to a hill
Slopin' south: and, just when you come
255
To the shilley behind; no rocks at all,
Just clayey stuff, but as steep as a wall,
And the jackdaws workin' their holes in it clever,
The divils, bein' soft, you'll observe; but, however,
You know the sort of place I mean—
Snug, I can tell ye—Archie Cain
They were callin' the farmer—but come with the wife;
But what's the odds! dear bless my life!
Fairish plough-land—couldn' be beat,
I've heard, for turmits—a little wet
In the bottom, no doubt, a sort of a gaery,
But splendid for geese; not much of a dairy—
Well, you wouldn' expeck—just enough that would do
For themselves—a nice little meadow or two—
But it paid them well—that gaery piece—
As round as bollans! tremenjis geese!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |