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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
306
How could it be right? how could it be right?
Heaven above, or earth beneath;
Right is right in the Devil's teeth.
Lovin' Nelly! What did ye say?
That was sugar for any man's tay?
Certainly! and no thanks to be gud,
If you were lovin' her; I think you shud!
And her lovin' you—aw, at that price,
Ould Nick himself'd 'a' tuk to be nice—
Yes, there's no doubt; but I can't discover
How he had any right to love her—
Any right, or any sense.
Good grayshurs! he knew he hadn' a chance
To get Nelly to love him. What was there in him
But muck and mash and hissin' venom?
Could he love? He could hate—he hated his wife!
Put a dhrop of love into that man's life;
Run a river of love—what's the gud of it all?
It'd only turn to the bitter gall.
He had soaked himself in spite—d'ye see?
He had steeped himself in cruelty.
He was pison to the very brim—
All the love on earth couldn' sweeten him.
Plant a apple tree in a bog—will it root?
In a hungry bog—will it bring forth fruit?
Plant love in Cain—don't you know what would happen?
It wouldn' be love; it wouldn' have the sap in,
Nor nathur, nor nothin': it would breed grubs;
It would rot; it would stink. It'll do in dubs,
Will dirty water; but, so soon as it flows,
Stand to one side, or hould your nose!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |