The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown

So he says one day to Tommy at last—
“You seem to have gifts with that fiddle,” he says,
And he flattens his hand like a dab of mortar
On the little chap's shoulder, and a kind of a sorter
Lookin' far off—“Now, gifts, my friend,
Is from the Lord, that knows where to send
His gifts,” he says; “and so you see,
They must be used accordantly,”
And a little pat, and the lift of the eye,
Like talkin' to somebody twelve foot high.

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I was there myself, and listenin' to 'm;
For almost every time I come home
I'd be out, bein' allis in a friendly way with them,
And takin' joy, and havin' my tay with them—
Well, of course, there was gels there too—
But look here! confound it! what's that to you?
“Now,” he says, “this fiddle here
Is very pleasant to the carnal ear,
To the ear of sense, that's aisy plaised,
But them that's got their affections raised,
How is it with them?” and his voice quite holler,
And took a hitch in Tommy's collar,
That was restless rather, and studdied him
Like a little sack—“How is it with them?”
And a twist with his knuckle, and “the aisy yoke,”
He says, and Tommy fit to choke,
Till at last the misthress said, rather fearful,
She thought the fiddle was very cheerful
And nice, and makin' people happy.
Oh, he turned upon her as snappy as snappy—
“Who asked your opinion? It's unbecomin',”
He says, “It's clane again Paul for a woman
To talk in the church.” “But at home,” she said,
“In the house, I don't see,” aw, his face got as red
As the fire, aw, you never seen the complexion.
“Silence!” he said, “Subjection! subjection!”
And then he got as peaceful lek,
“And,” he says, “I've a propogicion to make,”
And Tommy stoops and Tommy shifts,
“Thomas Gelling,” he says, “your gifts
Is only a snare to you, after all,
A snare,” he says; “but hear the call—
Take,” he says, “and dedicate
These gifts to His service; there's a handy seat
Under the pulpit,” he says, “in the middle
Of the aisle,” he says. “What! play the fiddle
In the chapel!” says Missis Cain; but he gave
A sweep with the hand, and “By your lave,”
He says, very dignified, “I was comin'

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To that,” he said, “but, of course, a woman!
But never mind (a tongue on a wire!)
This fiddle may go on the back of the fire,
Or the midden, or any other place;
You'll be cultivatin' the viol-bass,
Of course, the proper instrument,”
He says, “and begin immadient.
We'll get it from Ramsey,” he says, “you'll see;
And it'll be the chapel's property,
And paid in instalments out of the fund—
It isn' very expensive they run,
These viol-basses; and you'll have permission
To use it, but only on condition
You'll lead the singing. So there you have it:
And now your talent'll be His who gave it,
And you'll be sitting in the front pew,
And God 'll be glorified in you.”
And he sniffed, and Tommy said nothin' whatever.
“I've no doubt,” says Cain, “you'll do your endeavour;
But we're all of us wake,” he says, “and you know
Where we're privileged to go,
Thomas,” he says, and——on and on,
Till I thought he never would be done.
So at last I left him there in the thick of it,
For, I tell ye what, I was fairly sick of it—
A thund'rin' rascal, anyhow;
But, however, you'll hear, you'll hear just now.

Sort of.

To take joy, said of persons meeting after a long separation, or unexpectedly.

Against.

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