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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But, houldin' their own,
There they had me—the rose that had grown
At the mouth of their mine—and chaps to be comin'
Sniffin' and snuffin' like bumbees hummin'
Around their rose—it isn' raison,
And it isn' sense—the same with grazin'
On the commons, the same with fishin'-ground,
The same with everything; and you're bound
To stick to it too. And a gel like Nessy—
Dear me! if it was Dick Quayle-vessy,
He's yours for all; look after the lek—
“Cair! cair!” says Billy Injebrek.
But a splendid gel like Nessy—chut!
It's nothin' but reg'lar poachin': “Cut!”
Says you to this draper from Dhoolish, “be off!
You Ramsey sneak.” You'd be middlin' soft
If you didn'—to let them gather your rose
That handy from under your very nose!
“She's ours,” you'd say, “and we mean to keep her.”
If he stands to it, hit him a tap on the peeper—
They're not much these dandies—down with the fut!
“Cut!” says you, and by gough they'll cut.
There they had me—the rose that had grown
At the mouth of their mine—and chaps to be comin'
Sniffin' and snuffin' like bumbees hummin'
Around their rose—it isn' raison,
And it isn' sense—the same with grazin'
On the commons, the same with fishin'-ground,
The same with everything; and you're bound
To stick to it too. And a gel like Nessy—
Dear me! if it was Dick Quayle-vessy,
He's yours for all; look after the lek—
“Cair! cair!” says Billy Injebrek.
527
It's nothin' but reg'lar poachin': “Cut!”
Says you to this draper from Dhoolish, “be off!
You Ramsey sneak.” You'd be middlin' soft
If you didn'—to let them gather your rose
That handy from under your very nose!
“She's ours,” you'd say, “and we mean to keep her.”
If he stands to it, hit him a tap on the peeper—
They're not much these dandies—down with the fut!
“Cut!” says you, and by gough they'll cut.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |