 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But the pride of the man! the pride of the man!
To think he couldn' get her love like land—
Rent it, or buy it, so much an acre—
That, if she wouldn' love him, he couldn' make her.
Make? make? make! No, you won't, my boy!
Let's have that joy! for it is a joy!
You can't! you can't! Oh, isn' it glorious?
Love victorious! love victorious!
Victorious—eh! ah dear! the strength of it!
And the height and the depth and the breadth and the length of it.
Make it—will ye? Make a woman's heart!
Scoop it, and scrape it in every part!
Send blood through its chinks, let it beat, let it burn,
Make what you like! make a tub, make a churn!
He was welcome to love her. But was it fair?
That's it! that's it! I have you there—
When she couldn' love him, and when he knew,
Was it fair for him—I'll lave it to you—
First to sulk, and then to complain,
Then ragin' fury, then sulks again,
Till he settled down in the dead sea
Of bitter hatred and cruelty?
Where was the saint that she thought would direct her
On the road to Heaven, that she thought would protect her
Against herself, against the love
That was still in the deep of her heart, and strove
With the love of God? Where was he to lift her
Above everything on earth that could drift her
From the anchor of her sowl
Sure and steadfast, like we're tould
In Hebrews?—do ye remember the hymn?—
Jesus, lover—Say't for them, Sim!
Can he? you're foolish! is it can he, ye said?
Now, then, Simon, go ahead!
Simmy repeats:—
Just to show the way it's slantin'.
He could say every word. Well, you'll easy see,
He wasn' the man he was seemin' to be
When the misthress married him:—it was just like wakin'
Out of a dream; like a cloud'd be breakin',
Like scales goin' peelin' off her eyes,
When she saw what he was. There's some of them dies
Directly almost, and some drags on—
But she knew the man! she knew the man!
So that's the story she had to tell
To Tommy there—aw well, well, well!
Yes, she tould him—he didn' try to stop her—
But very nice, you know, and proper—
Like shuitable for him to hear—
Aw, that was the woman! never fear!
And—“Tommy, Tommy,” says Missis Cain,
“The curse is come upon them again—
The curse! the curse!” And—she'd send a letter
The very next day to Nelly, to get her
To come—and most particular.
And Tommy of course, you know, not to be there.
To think he couldn' get her love like land—
Rent it, or buy it, so much an acre—
That, if she wouldn' love him, he couldn' make her.
Make? make? make! No, you won't, my boy!
Let's have that joy! for it is a joy!
You can't! you can't! Oh, isn' it glorious?
Love victorious! love victorious!
Victorious—eh! ah dear! the strength of it!
And the height and the depth and the breadth and the length of it.
Make it—will ye? Make a woman's heart!
Scoop it, and scrape it in every part!
Send blood through its chinks, let it beat, let it burn,
Make what you like! make a tub, make a churn!
He was welcome to love her. But was it fair?
That's it! that's it! I have you there—
When she couldn' love him, and when he knew,
Was it fair for him—I'll lave it to you—
First to sulk, and then to complain,
Then ragin' fury, then sulks again,
Till he settled down in the dead sea
Of bitter hatred and cruelty?
Where was the saint that she thought would direct her
286
Against herself, against the love
That was still in the deep of her heart, and strove
With the love of God? Where was he to lift her
Above everything on earth that could drift her
From the anchor of her sowl
Sure and steadfast, like we're tould
In Hebrews?—do ye remember the hymn?—
Jesus, lover—Say't for them, Sim!
Can he? you're foolish! is it can he, ye said?
Now, then, Simon, go ahead!
Simmy repeats:—
Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the threatening billows roll
While the tempest still is nigh.
One verse, that's enough, that's all we're wantin',
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the threatening billows roll
While the tempest still is nigh.
Just to show the way it's slantin'.
He could say every word. Well, you'll easy see,
He wasn' the man he was seemin' to be
When the misthress married him:—it was just like wakin'
Out of a dream; like a cloud'd be breakin',
Like scales goin' peelin' off her eyes,
When she saw what he was. There's some of them dies
Directly almost, and some drags on—
But she knew the man! she knew the man!
So that's the story she had to tell
To Tommy there—aw well, well, well!
Yes, she tould him—he didn' try to stop her—
But very nice, you know, and proper—
Like shuitable for him to hear—
Aw, that was the woman! never fear!
And—“Tommy, Tommy,” says Missis Cain,
“The curse is come upon them again—
The curse! the curse!” And—she'd send a letter
The very next day to Nelly, to get her
To come—and most particular.
And Tommy of course, you know, not to be there.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |