 | I. |
 | II. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| III. |
 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But the 'sylum wasn' thought of then;
And she wasn' threescore years and ten,
Wasn' Misthriss Banks, nor sixty ither,
But 'stonishin' the way they'll wither—
The lek—aw, a reg'lar flibberty gibberty
Surt of a woman, and liked her liberty,
Aye, and tuk it. And when she was drest
And titervated all in her best,
And her white stockin', and her lastin' slipper,
I tell ye she looked a reg'lar clipper,
Tasty uncommon at Hollantide fair
Or the lek—aw, the tastiest woman there—
Painted, ye know—aw, lips and cheeks,
Like plaster just, lek goin' in streaks,
Like varnish mostly, like polish, like size;
And I don't know what the divil she was doin' to her eyes—
Like a play-acthur. So with all this criss-crosserin'
And dabbin' and grainin' and pink-saucerin',
You'd hardly thought, of the whole bilin',
You got the blackest wutch on the Islan'.
And she wasn' threescore years and ten,
Wasn' Misthriss Banks, nor sixty ither,
But 'stonishin' the way they'll wither—
The lek—aw, a reg'lar flibberty gibberty
Surt of a woman, and liked her liberty,
Aye, and tuk it. And when she was drest
And titervated all in her best,
And her white stockin', and her lastin' slipper,
I tell ye she looked a reg'lar clipper,
Tasty uncommon at Hollantide fair
551
Painted, ye know—aw, lips and cheeks,
Like plaster just, lek goin' in streaks,
Like varnish mostly, like polish, like size;
And I don't know what the divil she was doin' to her eyes—
Like a play-acthur. So with all this criss-crosserin'
And dabbin' and grainin' and pink-saucerin',
You'd hardly thought, of the whole bilin',
You got the blackest wutch on the Islan'.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |