The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown

But there's odds of charms; for some is just
A surt of a blessin'; but some is a cuss,
Most bitther, brewed in the very gall
Of spite and hate, and'll creep and crawl
Over your body and over your sowl,
Aye, man! aye! at laste so I'm tould—
And through and through, and makin' you sick,
And makin' you mad—aw, they know the trick!
Cussin' your fingers and cussin' your toes,
Cussin' your mouth and cussin' your nose,
Every odd jint, and every limb,
And all your inside—that's the thrim—
Cussin' your horse and cussin' your cow,
Cussin' the boar and cussin' the sow—
Everything that's got a tail;
Aye, and your spade, and your cart, and your flail,
Plough and harras, stock and crop,
Nets and lines—they'll navar stop—
Treminjis cussin'—charms? yis!
But writin'—no! but spit and hiss
And mutter and mumble—that's your surt!
Rags that's tore from the divil's ould shirt—
He'll claim his own. You'll be passin' by,

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And not a word, but the evil eye—
There ye are! you're struck, they've done ye!
They've got ye—you're tuk! they've put it upon ye—
Aw, boosely shockin'! And harbs! they picks them
The right time of the moon, and they'll take and mix them—
I've seen this woman myself goin' pryin'
Under the hedges, and stoopin' and spyin';
And if she seen me, she'd give a gurn
Most horrid at me. Yis, and they'll burn,
And they'll fry and they'll stew, and makin' faces—
What is it they won't do?—Brutes o' bases!
I know their par and I know their mar—
Divils! divils! that's what they are!
And should be tuk and burnt the way
They used to be—by gough, I'll lay
You'd smell the brimstone—you would so—
But no justice now, nor nothin'—no!
Ter'ble changes—takin' and slammin' them
In the Lunertic Asylum—crammin' them
With the best o' good livin', and rates and taxes,
And a doctor, and anything they axes—
At the Sthrang there—aye! and a mortal buildin',
And the money flyin', and carvin' and gildin',
And a fine sittervation, ter'ble airy—
And hip-hooraa for Robby Fairy!
“Down with the taxes!” says Robby, “bad luck with them!”
Taxes! aw, Robby'll have no truck with them.

Harrows.

The Isle of Man Lunatic Asylum at the Strang, near Douglas.

Famed as a nondescript reformer.

University of Virginia Library