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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
But the Pazon was in his study theer,
Sittin' in the arm-cheer,
And the servant brought the two of us in,
And sniffed, and cut, but lizzenin'
Outside no doubt, aw, lizzened,
Aw, as sure as she was chrizzened—
Bless ye! how could she help it—eh?
Just natheral, as you may say—
Natheral. So—“Pazon,” I says,
“Here's Jack Pentreath, that'll not take rest
About wutches,” I says; and I up and tould
All the jeel; and the Pazon to fould
His bands in a book, and as aisy as aisy,
And no hurry whatever; and Jack half crazy,
And “Go on then, Tom! go on! go on!”
And cudn' wait till I was done;
Like a thunderstorm! aw, fire and hail!
And “Yes, Pazon Gale!” and “No, Pazon Gale!”
And lovin' Nessy, and Nessy him,
And as happy as Jerusalem,
Till this dirt begun her divil's tricks,
And wutchin' the gel, “and puttin' betwix'
Hal Creer and me,” he says, “that was allis
The best of friends”; and the gallis, the gallis
Was too good for the lek, and if they got
Their rights, it's lek they'd find it hot—
“Hot,” he says, “rather hot, rather hot,”
Says Jack; but however, and whether or not,
They'd get it at last aback of the bars
Of hell, these divil's sassingers,
Fryin', yes! But could nothin' be done
Afore that to stop their carryin' on?
And—“Look here, Pazon, here's a go!
Think of Nessy—as pure as the snow,
And as sweet that shuggar cudn' be sweeter,
And this ould scoundhrel, this ould blue Peter
Of a rag of a vagabone to pizon
The loveliest craythur ye ever set eyes on!
Pizon! pizon! sartinly!
Body and sowl—machree! machree!
Pazon, Pazon! it shudn' be!
It shudn'! it shudn'!”—“What pizon then?”
Says the Pazon, “what pizon is it that's in,
Jack?” he says. “You surely don't think
She's givin' Nessy stuff to drink,
Harbs or the lek?”—“No, no!” says Jack;
“My gough! she's on another tack
Altogether. What odds the drinkin'? ?
Pizonin', pizonin' like winkin';
Sartinly!” not givin', but doin',
That was it—at the full moon—
Harbs—and what was to hinder her? d--- it!
(The Pazon looked funny.) Did he think they'd ram it
Down a gel's throat? My gough! what sense?
“Harbs! charms! did ye ever?—go to France!”
“Now Jack,” I says, “you'll spake respactful
To the Pazon,” I says. “Harbs! many a sackful
I've seen at her,” says Jack; “but dose
And drug the gel!—But the Pazon knows
Of coorse—no frankincense nor myrrh
Wasn' that; and ask your pardon, sir—
Brewin', that's it! and these divil's birds,
And the evil eye, and sayin' the words,
And the strength, and the steam, and the black art—
And lawyers—bless ye! takin' their part—
Lawyers—much on the same hand.
But the Pazon's the man! the Pazon's the man!
Eh, Tom? Let the Pazon go to work!
That's the boy that'll draw their cork!”
“Respactful,” I says, “then, Jack, if ye plaise;
Respactful, respactful!” And the Pazon to raise
His eyes a bit; and—“Do you believe
In this nonsense?” he says; and lek to reeve
A surt of a laugh through his shouldhers lek.
And—“Thomas,” he says, “aw well I'd expeck
Better of you.”—“What for then, Pazon?”
Says I, “if you'll excuse me as'in'.”
Sittin' in the arm-cheer,
And the servant brought the two of us in,
580
Outside no doubt, aw, lizzened,
Aw, as sure as she was chrizzened—
Bless ye! how could she help it—eh?
Just natheral, as you may say—
Natheral. So—“Pazon,” I says,
“Here's Jack Pentreath, that'll not take rest
About wutches,” I says; and I up and tould
All the jeel; and the Pazon to fould
His bands in a book, and as aisy as aisy,
And no hurry whatever; and Jack half crazy,
And “Go on then, Tom! go on! go on!”
And cudn' wait till I was done;
Like a thunderstorm! aw, fire and hail!
And “Yes, Pazon Gale!” and “No, Pazon Gale!”
And lovin' Nessy, and Nessy him,
And as happy as Jerusalem,
Till this dirt begun her divil's tricks,
And wutchin' the gel, “and puttin' betwix'
Hal Creer and me,” he says, “that was allis
The best of friends”; and the gallis, the gallis
Was too good for the lek, and if they got
Their rights, it's lek they'd find it hot—
“Hot,” he says, “rather hot, rather hot,”
Says Jack; but however, and whether or not,
They'd get it at last aback of the bars
Of hell, these divil's sassingers,
Fryin', yes! But could nothin' be done
Afore that to stop their carryin' on?
And—“Look here, Pazon, here's a go!
Think of Nessy—as pure as the snow,
And as sweet that shuggar cudn' be sweeter,
And this ould scoundhrel, this ould blue Peter
Of a rag of a vagabone to pizon
The loveliest craythur ye ever set eyes on!
Pizon! pizon! sartinly!
Body and sowl—machree! machree!
Pazon, Pazon! it shudn' be!
It shudn'! it shudn'!”—“What pizon then?”
Says the Pazon, “what pizon is it that's in,
581
She's givin' Nessy stuff to drink,
Harbs or the lek?”—“No, no!” says Jack;
“My gough! she's on another tack
Altogether. What odds the drinkin'? ?
Pizonin', pizonin' like winkin';
Sartinly!” not givin', but doin',
That was it—at the full moon—
Harbs—and what was to hinder her? d--- it!
(The Pazon looked funny.) Did he think they'd ram it
Down a gel's throat? My gough! what sense?
“Harbs! charms! did ye ever?—go to France!”
“Now Jack,” I says, “you'll spake respactful
To the Pazon,” I says. “Harbs! many a sackful
I've seen at her,” says Jack; “but dose
And drug the gel!—But the Pazon knows
Of coorse—no frankincense nor myrrh
Wasn' that; and ask your pardon, sir—
Brewin', that's it! and these divil's birds,
And the evil eye, and sayin' the words,
And the strength, and the steam, and the black art—
And lawyers—bless ye! takin' their part—
Lawyers—much on the same hand.
But the Pazon's the man! the Pazon's the man!
Eh, Tom? Let the Pazon go to work!
That's the boy that'll draw their cork!”
“Respactful,” I says, “then, Jack, if ye plaise;
Respactful, respactful!” And the Pazon to raise
His eyes a bit; and—“Do you believe
In this nonsense?” he says; and lek to reeve
A surt of a laugh through his shouldhers lek.
And—“Thomas,” he says, “aw well I'd expeck
Better of you.”—“What for then, Pazon?”
Says I, “if you'll excuse me as'in'.”
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |