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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
So this is where Tommy allis was hauntin'—
Every mortal thing he was wantin'
He could find in them meadows—wonderful land
For harbs! and him that could understand
The sorts, you know, and the virtue they had,
And were they good, or were they bad—
And them that was p'ison—aw, first rate;
Bless ye! the p'isons was just like mate
To Tommy, that liked to feel the strong
They were, and rowlin' them on his tongue.
Well, he was curious, I tell ye—
“Look here!” he'd say, “I could take and kill ye
With a drop of this stuff!” For he'd boil it, and strain it,
And still it and steam it, and draw it and drain it,
Till he'd nothin' left but the very last squeeze
Of the Divil's own clout—aw, as nice as you please—
What's this he called it—“concockit?” “decockit,”
Aye, stowed away in his waistcoot pocket,
Many a time I've tould the chap
To take care for fear he'd get into a scrape
With this dirt, that nobody never can't trust—
Abominable dangerous!
Every mortal thing he was wantin'
He could find in them meadows—wonderful land
For harbs! and him that could understand
The sorts, you know, and the virtue they had,
And were they good, or were they bad—
And them that was p'ison—aw, first rate;
Bless ye! the p'isons was just like mate
271
They were, and rowlin' them on his tongue.
Well, he was curious, I tell ye—
“Look here!” he'd say, “I could take and kill ye
With a drop of this stuff!” For he'd boil it, and strain it,
And still it and steam it, and draw it and drain it,
Till he'd nothin' left but the very last squeeze
Of the Divil's own clout—aw, as nice as you please—
What's this he called it—“concockit?” “decockit,”
Aye, stowed away in his waistcoot pocket,
Many a time I've tould the chap
To take care for fear he'd get into a scrape
With this dirt, that nobody never can't trust—
Abominable dangerous!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |