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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
Well, I got them down to the washin' floors
Very friendly; and then these cures
Begun a schaemin' what would they plan—
And—Would they try the Ballawhane?
And axin' me. “Aw, that's no use
At all,” I says: “it's the very deuce,”
I says, “this wutchin'—the horriderse goin',
Black, yes, black.” But sure they were knowin'
The Ballawhane was workin' the white?
“Aw, diff'rin', bless ye! diff'rin' quite!
Lek cows and that—and gives you some sperrit,
Or harbs in a bottle; and as soon as you'll gerrit
In your fiss, the baste, that's very lekly
Miles away, is batthar toreckly.
Aw, I've seen the ould chap, and the big book
And the wise he'll talk, and the sollum he'll look—
Aw, diff'rin', aw, that's understood—
Aw, doin' good, doin' good!
Aw, bless ye! the Ballawhane to wutch her!
Goodness grayshers! he couldn' touch her!
Wutchin' a wutch! aw, there's no sanse,
Sartinly not! Now, a little expanse,”
I says, “and you'll do her; yes, you will!
Do her as nice as pozzible—
Ned Kissack's gun—I know he'd lend her—
Now then,” I says, “what's goin' to hender
But we'll make a silver bullet for her—
A silver bullet—there you've gorrer!
Melt some shillin's—that's the way!
'Spansive? yes, but bound to pay!
That's your surt! Now, let's go spy'n'
The hedges on the Ballaquine,
And along to the Gill; and see if a hare
Or the lek is often takin' there—
The wutch—as sure as eggs is eggs,
Fire at her legs! fire at her legs!
And she'll disappear: but lo and behould!
Up to the Gill! and—Makin' so bould,
How are ye, Mrs. Banks, this mornin'?
Aw, limpin'! aw, I give you warnin'!
Limpin'! of coorse—or a surt of a hop—
Limpin', aye limpin' all over the shop.
A silver bullet—eh? Jack, my hearty!
That's the way to fix the party.”
Very friendly; and then these cures
Begun a schaemin' what would they plan—
And—Would they try the Ballawhane?
And axin' me. “Aw, that's no use
At all,” I says: “it's the very deuce,”
I says, “this wutchin'—the horriderse goin',
Black, yes, black.” But sure they were knowin'
The Ballawhane was workin' the white?
“Aw, diff'rin', bless ye! diff'rin' quite!
Lek cows and that—and gives you some sperrit,
Or harbs in a bottle; and as soon as you'll gerrit
In your fiss, the baste, that's very lekly
Miles away, is batthar toreckly.
Aw, I've seen the ould chap, and the big book
And the wise he'll talk, and the sollum he'll look—
Aw, diff'rin', aw, that's understood—
Aw, doin' good, doin' good!
Aw, bless ye! the Ballawhane to wutch her!
Goodness grayshers! he couldn' touch her!
Wutchin' a wutch! aw, there's no sanse,
Sartinly not! Now, a little expanse,”
I says, “and you'll do her; yes, you will!
Do her as nice as pozzible—
Ned Kissack's gun—I know he'd lend her—
Now then,” I says, “what's goin' to hender
But we'll make a silver bullet for her—
A silver bullet—there you've gorrer!
Melt some shillin's—that's the way!
'Spansive? yes, but bound to pay!
That's your surt! Now, let's go spy'n'
The hedges on the Ballaquine,
And along to the Gill; and see if a hare
Or the lek is often takin' there—
The wutch—as sure as eggs is eggs,
570
And she'll disappear: but lo and behould!
Up to the Gill! and—Makin' so bould,
How are ye, Mrs. Banks, this mornin'?
Aw, limpin'! aw, I give you warnin'!
Limpin'! of coorse—or a surt of a hop—
Limpin', aye limpin' all over the shop.
A silver bullet—eh? Jack, my hearty!
That's the way to fix the party.”
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |