 | I. |
 |
|
| II. |
| III. |
 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
And childher—is it only pushin'
Their finger that makes the tears come rushin'
Till they're nothin' but tears, just a livin' spout?
It's because they're turnin' inside out
Easier till grown-up people, being pli'ble,
Aye—but us that's ouldher is li'ble
To get hard and stiff, or else all flabby,
Just a miser'ble sort of drabby,
Lek feelin' nothin', or seemin' we didn',
Like an ould boot upon a midden.
God bless the childher! God bless their wayses!
They're spinnin' no cobwebs before their faces—
Not much like spiders isn' them—
Yandhar David too the same,
In the Bible you've got him, like it appears—
Aw, David was the boy for tears!
Their finger that makes the tears come rushin'
Till they're nothin' but tears, just a livin' spout?
It's because they're turnin' inside out
Easier till grown-up people, being pli'ble,
Aye—but us that's ouldher is li'ble
To get hard and stiff, or else all flabby,
Just a miser'ble sort of drabby,
Lek feelin' nothin', or seemin' we didn',
Like an ould boot upon a midden.
God bless the childher! God bless their wayses!
They're spinnin' no cobwebs before their faces—
Not much like spiders isn' them—
Yandhar David too the same,
In the Bible you've got him, like it appears—
Aw, David was the boy for tears!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |