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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But the wuss of this wutch was Nessy was fond of her,
For of coorse she was gettin' the upper hand of her
With the wutchin'. But that wasn' all, not a bit!
Fascernatin', is that it?
Aw, you may call it any name,
Comedher, 'tractin', all the same.
You see, she was used of her from a chile.
And, by gough, the woman had a style
That was off the common, knowin' hapes
Of sin, I doubt; and been in scrapes
And scrapes, it's lek. But a surt of a flash with her,
And a cut, and a never-say-die, and a dash with her,
That was seemin' grand to a country gel
Like Nessy, aye. And the stories she'd tell,
Dear me! and the 'sperience she had,
And the riddles and witty things that she said.
And Nessy, ye see, that innocent,
She didn' twig the divilment—
Muck, man, muck, goin' mixed with spice.
But divilment, no matter the nice,
Like some of these flowers you'll feed your eyes on,
Feed your belly?—look out for pizon.
For of coorse she was gettin' the upper hand of her
574
Fascernatin', is that it?
Aw, you may call it any name,
Comedher, 'tractin', all the same.
You see, she was used of her from a chile.
And, by gough, the woman had a style
That was off the common, knowin' hapes
Of sin, I doubt; and been in scrapes
And scrapes, it's lek. But a surt of a flash with her,
And a cut, and a never-say-die, and a dash with her,
That was seemin' grand to a country gel
Like Nessy, aye. And the stories she'd tell,
Dear me! and the 'sperience she had,
And the riddles and witty things that she said.
And Nessy, ye see, that innocent,
She didn' twig the divilment—
Muck, man, muck, goin' mixed with spice.
But divilment, no matter the nice,
Like some of these flowers you'll feed your eyes on,
Feed your belly?—look out for pizon.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |