 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
Well that was Jack and Harry's style,
And lek enough the best of a mile
To the farm, but takin' differin' ways
Reggilar; and Jack'd ha' 'crase
Mostly of Harry, but couldn' hinder
But the two of them meetin' under the winder.
Jack fuss, and Harry to folla—
And Harry more like a dooiney-molla
For Jack, lek helpin' him to woo,
But takin' his turn at the winder too—
Aw, honour bright! but not much, ye see,
To say for himself, this Henery—
Not him—and puzzled, I doubt,
Puzzled enough to hould out
The time that Jack was givin' him—shy,
And hum and hem, and “Aye, woman? aye?”
That was the most she got out of Harry—
Aw, a dacent chap! aw, varry! varry!
But 'lowanced of brain—that's it! that's it!
'Lowanced enough, and navar fit
For the likes of her, that could dance all round him
With the tongue, and altogether confound him—
And—“Aye, woman? aye?” till at last she says—
“It's no use o' churnin' away like this,
And navar no butter.” And—“Come! will ye talk
About Jack?” she says, and he wouldn' baulk
The young woman of coorse. “Very well,” says he,
And on about Jack, and fiddlededee—
And what did he think of Jack? was he right
In his mind, did he think? and rather a flight
Of a craythur—what? and no doubt takin' care—
The way she was spakin'—that Jack would hear—
And Jack nearly choked with the rage—good Lord,
But bitendin' not to hear a word.
And lek enough the best of a mile
To the farm, but takin' differin' ways
Reggilar; and Jack'd ha' 'crase
Mostly of Harry, but couldn' hinder
But the two of them meetin' under the winder.
Jack fuss, and Harry to folla—
537
For Jack, lek helpin' him to woo,
But takin' his turn at the winder too—
Aw, honour bright! but not much, ye see,
To say for himself, this Henery—
Not him—and puzzled, I doubt,
Puzzled enough to hould out
The time that Jack was givin' him—shy,
And hum and hem, and “Aye, woman? aye?”
That was the most she got out of Harry—
Aw, a dacent chap! aw, varry! varry!
But 'lowanced of brain—that's it! that's it!
'Lowanced enough, and navar fit
For the likes of her, that could dance all round him
With the tongue, and altogether confound him—
And—“Aye, woman? aye?” till at last she says—
“It's no use o' churnin' away like this,
And navar no butter.” And—“Come! will ye talk
About Jack?” she says, and he wouldn' baulk
The young woman of coorse. “Very well,” says he,
And on about Jack, and fiddlededee—
And what did he think of Jack? was he right
In his mind, did he think? and rather a flight
Of a craythur—what? and no doubt takin' care—
The way she was spakin'—that Jack would hear—
And Jack nearly choked with the rage—good Lord,
But bitendin' not to hear a word.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |