 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
So, you see, this bass viol
Was sent for from Ramsey at first on trial,
Apprerbation, or whatever they call it,
And Tommy there to overhaul it,
And see was it right, and couldn' take to it
At first at all, not able to spake to it,
He said, like the fiddle; aw, longin' shockin'
For the fiddle, for all, that was used to go cockin'
On his shouldher so handy, you know, or sittin'
Upon his breast like a little kitten,
Nustlin' there agen his cheek,
And coaxin' the lovely little squeak
Out of its innards, somewhere or another,
Just like a baby with the mother—
And the misthress loved to hear him like that,
It went to her soul, she couldn' tell what
She was feelin', no, she couldn', she said,
But, comforted, aye, comforted—
And she had her troubles with yandhar man,
Poor thing! and it wasn' with him they began—
No—and this Tommy delighted to plaze her.
But when he got this roarin' baser,
He was put out most pitiful;
For, however he'd screw, and however he'd pull,
And see-sawin'
And Margery-Dawin',
He'd get nothin', with all his scrapes and his scrowls,
But a sort of booin' you'll hear at these owls.
Was sent for from Ramsey at first on trial,
Apprerbation, or whatever they call it,
And Tommy there to overhaul it,
And see was it right, and couldn' take to it
At first at all, not able to spake to it,
He said, like the fiddle; aw, longin' shockin'
For the fiddle, for all, that was used to go cockin'
On his shouldher so handy, you know, or sittin'
Upon his breast like a little kitten,
Nustlin' there agen his cheek,
And coaxin' the lovely little squeak
263
Just like a baby with the mother—
And the misthress loved to hear him like that,
It went to her soul, she couldn' tell what
She was feelin', no, she couldn', she said,
But, comforted, aye, comforted—
And she had her troubles with yandhar man,
Poor thing! and it wasn' with him they began—
No—and this Tommy delighted to plaze her.
But when he got this roarin' baser,
He was put out most pitiful;
For, however he'd screw, and however he'd pull,
And see-sawin'
And Margery-Dawin',
He'd get nothin', with all his scrapes and his scrowls,
But a sort of booin' you'll hear at these owls.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |