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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
And then he 'splaint
and 'splaint,
Aw, uncommon! And—The Testament,
And the Ould and the New, and close akin,
But still for all the differin'—
And dispensin' and that. And all about ghoses,
And divils, and Samuel, and Moses;
And the power of the evil one, and them dirts
That was possessin' people, unclean spir'ts,
And spir'ts of infirmity—just so;
And that muck of divils that was suffered to go
Into the pigs, that was feedin' away—
Muck to muck! lek a body might say—
And drowned in the waters. And Christ to send them
About their biznuss, and take and pin them
In the only place they gor a right to,
And sure enough that's hell. And they'll try to
Ger out for a sthrowl, no doubt; but they can't—
And their power is gone; and no matter the haunt
Or the used of
a place, or a pesson's body,
They're done complate. Some niddy-noddy
Of a poor craythur you'll be seein' still
On the counthry goin'; but unpozzible
For these divils to touch them, bein' innocent—
Wutches! no! But others rent
With fire and fury, and they're callin',
Insane, and that, and shoutin' and bawlin'—
Aw, as mad as brute bases—
But just a disase like other disases.
But wutches! we've got nothin' to say with—
Wutches! They're tuk and done away with
Altogether; got the sack;
And Christ that done it, and that's a fact!
And Baalim and Ashtaroth,
Heaven's queen and mother both—
Somethin' like that—but I'll take my oath—
A Roman? the Pazon! God bless your sowl!
Not him; but, if I may make so boul',
Just houl' your jaw! And—The Libyc Ammon,
The chap with the horns; and ould Mammon,
That must ha' been a surt of a fool,
With his eyes on the floor for the fond of the gool'—
Hapes—but druv away like chaff
Afore the babe that was born in the laf' —
At laste, the manger—and no use a' rebellin'—
That's the way the Pazon was tellin'.
Aw, uncommon! And—The Testament,
And the Ould and the New, and close akin,
But still for all the differin'—
And dispensin' and that. And all about ghoses,
And divils, and Samuel, and Moses;
And the power of the evil one, and them dirts
That was possessin' people, unclean spir'ts,
And spir'ts of infirmity—just so;
And that muck of divils that was suffered to go
Into the pigs, that was feedin' away—
Muck to muck! lek a body might say—
And drowned in the waters. And Christ to send them
About their biznuss, and take and pin them
In the only place they gor a right to,
And sure enough that's hell. And they'll try to
Ger out for a sthrowl, no doubt; but they can't—
And their power is gone; and no matter the haunt
584
They're done complate. Some niddy-noddy
Of a poor craythur you'll be seein' still
On the counthry goin'; but unpozzible
For these divils to touch them, bein' innocent—
Wutches! no! But others rent
With fire and fury, and they're callin',
Insane, and that, and shoutin' and bawlin'—
Aw, as mad as brute bases—
But just a disase like other disases.
But wutches! we've got nothin' to say with—
Wutches! They're tuk and done away with
Altogether; got the sack;
And Christ that done it, and that's a fact!
And Baalim and Ashtaroth,
Heaven's queen and mother both—
Somethin' like that—but I'll take my oath—
A Roman? the Pazon! God bless your sowl!
Not him; but, if I may make so boul',
Just houl' your jaw! And—The Libyc Ammon,
The chap with the horns; and ould Mammon,
That must ha' been a surt of a fool,
With his eyes on the floor for the fond of the gool'—
Hapes—but druv away like chaff
Afore the babe that was born in the laf' —
At laste, the manger—and no use a' rebellin'—
That's the way the Pazon was tellin'.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |