The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown

The day was hardly bruk when Nessy
Was up to the Gill, and beggin' for messy,
And for all the sakes! and what she would give her;
And couldn' they be as thick as ever?
And Jack was onpatient, but Jack was gud;
And she'd give her anything! yes, she wud!
She'd give her her brooch and her beautiful pin,
And her clasp, and the rael gool sovereign
She got in her box, and a velvet belt
That was speckled with flowers, and the buckle gilt
Most lovely—aye! poor thing! poor thing!
And ribbons and scarfs! “Will you give me the ring
You've got on your finger then?” says the aunt—
Her mother's weddin'-ring she meant—
“Will you give me that?” Then Nessy shook

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All over, and she gave a look
At the woman, and aw, the pitiful!
And then at the ring, and begun to pull,
And stopped, and pulled, and stopped again,
And the tears come pourin' down like rain;
And she snuggled her hand agin her breast,
And kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed—
The ring, of coorse, and looks up at the aunt,
And just a whisper—“I can't! I can't!—
I seen him take it . . . take it,” she said,
“From her finger . . . —and the straight in the bed . . .
And the cowld, auntie, the cowld! the cowld! . . .”
And the poor gel shivered. But the aunt to rowl
Her eyes like wheels, and her body stretched
To the full of her height, and tuk and retched
All over the child, till she fell right down,
Like stiff, like dead—aw, then I'll be bound
She had her up and in her lap,
And hushee bowbabbied, and on the tree-top,
In a minute—aye, and stooped lek to cover her,
And sthrooghin' her theer, and breathin' over her
The wutches breath, and hummin' charms
In her ear; and all the strain of her arms,
And the warmth, and the squeeze, and the curl, and the ply
Of all her body, till Nessy to sigh,
And Nessy to move. And then . . . and then . . .
She'd got another plan, my men.

Mercy.

Fragments of a cradle-song.

Stroking.

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