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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
I believe in my heart the poor gel was ailin'
All over some way, like a surt of a failin',
Yes, even her temper a little touched—
Wutched?—did ye say, of coorse she was wutched.
And wutched bad; why, a sweeter gel
Or a gennaler never bruk the shell.
Nat'ral lovin', nat'ral wishin'
To be kind, aw, a beautiful dispogition.
But now she was often quick and cross,
Sharp and short lek—no, not sauce,
Not that! not that! but lek she'd been goin'
Awakin' up sudden, and hardly knowin'
Where was she at all; and the white her face!
And when Jack was puttin' his arm round her waist,
She'd start like needles runnin' through her,
And away from him, and get to the door,
And look out, and come back, and her eyes to stare
Like seein' somethin' that wasn' there—
Despard uncomfible! aw, despard!
But special for Jack; for, if he whispered
In her ear—the way they will,
Lovers—or squeezed her hand a lill
(And all in raison), she looked that scar'd
And that freckened, or else that stiff and that hard,
That Jack was nearly out of his mind.
And Brew would see, and pretend to be plyin'
His spells—just some of their little tiffs,
Thinks Brew, and drops the paper, and sniffs;
And “Good-night!” he'd say, and “'Deed I've read
Till I'm tired urrov-massy,” and off to bed—
“They'll be makin' it up all right,” thinks Brew,
“When they're left to theirselves.” But wouldn' do.
All over some way, like a surt of a failin',
Yes, even her temper a little touched—
Wutched?—did ye say, of coorse she was wutched.
And wutched bad; why, a sweeter gel
Or a gennaler never bruk the shell.
Nat'ral lovin', nat'ral wishin'
To be kind, aw, a beautiful dispogition.
573
Sharp and short lek—no, not sauce,
Not that! not that! but lek she'd been goin'
Awakin' up sudden, and hardly knowin'
Where was she at all; and the white her face!
And when Jack was puttin' his arm round her waist,
She'd start like needles runnin' through her,
And away from him, and get to the door,
And look out, and come back, and her eyes to stare
Like seein' somethin' that wasn' there—
Despard uncomfible! aw, despard!
But special for Jack; for, if he whispered
In her ear—the way they will,
Lovers—or squeezed her hand a lill
(And all in raison), she looked that scar'd
And that freckened, or else that stiff and that hard,
That Jack was nearly out of his mind.
And Brew would see, and pretend to be plyin'
His spells—just some of their little tiffs,
Thinks Brew, and drops the paper, and sniffs;
And “Good-night!” he'd say, and “'Deed I've read
Till I'm tired urrov-massy,” and off to bed—
“They'll be makin' it up all right,” thinks Brew,
“When they're left to theirselves.” But wouldn' do.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |