 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But still we hev it in Revelation
And about the cup of abomination—
And —the blood of the saints—and goin' a dressin'
In a scarlet frock, like a foreign pessin—
A bad lot that—and Jezebel,
Lookin' out at the windher—aw, a despard swell!
And painted her face, and tired her head—
“Fling her down!” this Jehu said—
“Fling her down!” and tuk and swung her—
One—two—“Fling!” aw, by gough they flung her.
Aw, Jehu was mortal boosely though—
You mind the heads there all in a row,
Seventy of them at the gate,
And kings' sons, and lekly as nate
As a pin, and the hair of them just like silk,
And comin' in in the mornin' with the milk—
Aw, Jehu—well, I hav'n' a word
To say—but still—ye see, the Lord—
So lave it alone; but, of a rule,
Them ould kings was middlin' cru'l.
And about the cup of abomination—
And —the blood of the saints—and goin' a dressin'
In a scarlet frock, like a foreign pessin—
A bad lot that—and Jezebel,
Lookin' out at the windher—aw, a despard swell!
And painted her face, and tired her head—
“Fling her down!” this Jehu said—
“Fling her down!” and tuk and swung her—
One—two—“Fling!” aw, by gough they flung her.
Aw, Jehu was mortal boosely though—
You mind the heads there all in a row,
Seventy of them at the gate,
And kings' sons, and lekly as nate
As a pin, and the hair of them just like silk,
And comin' in in the mornin' with the milk—
Aw, Jehu—well, I hav'n' a word
To say—but still—ye see, the Lord—
So lave it alone; but, of a rule,
Them ould kings was middlin' cru'l.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |