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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
Did I tell you about the chile she had?
Job he was callin'—a lump of a lad
Them times, but younger till his cousin.
Short was Job—of his body he wasn';
But short of wit—the innercent
Ye navar—that's the way I meant—
Soft, no doubt, aw soft; but grew
A splandid falla; soft, but true
As steel, and gud, and full of grace,
And a beautiful face! a beautiful face!
Aw, the gentle! aw, the sweet!
I tell ye what—you wouldn' meet
The lek of Job on a long day's march—
No you wouldn'—and as straight as a larch—
Lovely made—and the big blue eye,
Aw, fit to make a body cry!
And grew——but that was years and years
Afterwards——avast these tears—
Look at me!——another night
I'll give you Job——all right! all right!
Aw, a ter'ble story——but he wears the robe—
Washed, ah washed! poor Job! poor Job!
Job he was callin'—a lump of a lad
Them times, but younger till his cousin.
Short was Job—of his body he wasn';
But short of wit—the innercent
Ye navar—that's the way I meant—
Soft, no doubt, aw soft; but grew
A splandid falla; soft, but true
As steel, and gud, and full of grace,
And a beautiful face! a beautiful face!
Aw, the gentle! aw, the sweet!
I tell ye what—you wouldn' meet
553
No you wouldn'—and as straight as a larch—
Lovely made—and the big blue eye,
Aw, fit to make a body cry!
And grew——but that was years and years
Afterwards——avast these tears—
Look at me!——another night
I'll give you Job——all right! all right!
Aw, a ter'ble story——but he wears the robe—
Washed, ah washed! poor Job! poor Job!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |