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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But the nither Job nor the mother was gettin'
Admission to Brew's, except she'd be lettin'
In at Nessy on the sly,
When Brew was in bed—aw, she wouldn' be shy
Wouldn' yandhar; but freckened enough
Of Brew that cud be despard rough,
For all the aisy; but freckened though,
Freckened himself—aw, I'd have ye to know!
Freckened thallure; for he knew she could wither
The heart of him into ould shoe-leather,
Or any other divilment—
Witchin', wutchin', wherever she went,
Wutchin' sartin; but kep' it off
With this thalthan, and the cow, and the crof'—
He had her there, and middlin' safe,
He was thinkin'—aye, but didn' hafe
Like the thing; and made up his mind
She shouldn' get in on the Ballaquine,
Her nor her child.
Admission to Brew's, except she'd be lettin'
In at Nessy on the sly,
When Brew was in bed—aw, she wouldn' be shy
Wouldn' yandhar; but freckened enough
Of Brew that cud be despard rough,
For all the aisy; but freckened though,
Freckened himself—aw, I'd have ye to know!
Freckened thallure; for he knew she could wither
The heart of him into ould shoe-leather,
Or any other divilment—
Witchin', wutchin', wherever she went,
Wutchin' sartin; but kep' it off
With this thalthan, and the cow, and the crof'—
He had her there, and middlin' safe,
He was thinkin'—aye, but didn' hafe
Like the thing; and made up his mind
She shouldn' get in on the Ballaquine,
Her nor her child.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |