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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
And the Pazon kep' his word, for he went
The very next day to see Nessy, and spent
The best of an hour with her there, and he tould her
All about wutches; and a mind to scould her
For the fearful she was: but all he done
Was spoke to her, and made the run .
Much the same he did with us—
And Nessy cryin' fit to bus'—
And about the power; they cudn' hev it,
These wutches, no! And who was to gev it?—
Most of them wake in their intelleck;
But others wicked; and the faymale seck
In general, the Pazon said—
Aye, wrong in the head, wrong in the head.
But mischievous enough was a wutch—
Sartinly—and spacial for such
That believed in the lek. But believe them not,
And where's their power? it's gone like a shot.
“It's you that gives them the power,” he says,
“By believin' in all this wickedness—
Power? It's you that's 'sponsible for it;
Don't give them the power, and they hevn' gorrit. .
Poor thing!” he says, “poor thing! poor thing!
Poor Nessy then!” And the hands to wring
At Nessy—aye—“And your aunt,” he said;
“Your aunt! aw dear! it's very bad—
Very bad, and very hard”—
But the door of messy wasn' barred
Agin the lek. And then he tuk
A little prayer, and Nessy shuk
All over; but got more pacefuller.
And then she said—“Will you spake to her,
Masthar Gale?” she says. Aw, his lip was goin',
But never a word, and never no knowin'
Azackly what was arrim —his head
All stooped, you know. But at last he said—
“I will”—very low, like a surt of a pride,
That humble and that dignified.
And the hat and the stick; and Nessy freckened
To see him like yandhar. Now it's general reckoned
That Pazons is special—what, special? my gough!
A Pazon can spit, and a Pazon can cough.
What is it botherin' you and me
In our sowls? We know we've done wrong, d'ye see!
Give it a word now! chrizzen it, chrizzen it!
In our sowls, in our sowls, man—Conscience, isn' it?
Conscience—sartinly. And the same
With Pazons. Pazons feelin' shame?
To be sure! aw, good enough some of them;
But still a conscience! You're thinkin' it's rum of them?
They should be angels altogether?
But bless ye! bless ye! just considher—
Or—drop it! Anyway, I'll be bail
There was conscience plenty in Pazon Gale.
And he knew he should ha' spoke to this beauty
Long afore, lek bein' his duty
As clear as clear: but didn', no!
That's the way—just so! just so!
The delicake—that's the way he spar'd her:
Bless ye! the delicaker the harder!
Isn' it? reg'lar? the harder to spake
To such dirts, the harder to have or to make
With their doin's, the natheral to keep
Urrov their road, lek the way with a sweep,
And his rope, and his brush, and his bag of shoot.
But wrong, I tell ye, and the Pazon knew't.
The very next day to see Nessy, and spent
The best of an hour with her there, and he tould her
All about wutches; and a mind to scould her
586
Was spoke to her, and made the run .
Much the same he did with us—
And Nessy cryin' fit to bus'—
And about the power; they cudn' hev it,
These wutches, no! And who was to gev it?—
Most of them wake in their intelleck;
But others wicked; and the faymale seck
In general, the Pazon said—
Aye, wrong in the head, wrong in the head.
But mischievous enough was a wutch—
Sartinly—and spacial for such
That believed in the lek. But believe them not,
And where's their power? it's gone like a shot.
“It's you that gives them the power,” he says,
“By believin' in all this wickedness—
Power? It's you that's 'sponsible for it;
Don't give them the power, and they hevn' gorrit. .
Poor thing!” he says, “poor thing! poor thing!
Poor Nessy then!” And the hands to wring
At Nessy—aye—“And your aunt,” he said;
“Your aunt! aw dear! it's very bad—
Very bad, and very hard”—
But the door of messy wasn' barred
Agin the lek. And then he tuk
A little prayer, and Nessy shuk
All over; but got more pacefuller.
And then she said—“Will you spake to her,
Masthar Gale?” she says. Aw, his lip was goin',
But never a word, and never no knowin'
Azackly what was arrim —his head
All stooped, you know. But at last he said—
“I will”—very low, like a surt of a pride,
That humble and that dignified.
And the hat and the stick; and Nessy freckened
To see him like yandhar. Now it's general reckoned
That Pazons is special—what, special? my gough!
A Pazon can spit, and a Pazon can cough.
What is it botherin' you and me
587
Give it a word now! chrizzen it, chrizzen it!
In our sowls, in our sowls, man—Conscience, isn' it?
Conscience—sartinly. And the same
With Pazons. Pazons feelin' shame?
To be sure! aw, good enough some of them;
But still a conscience! You're thinkin' it's rum of them?
They should be angels altogether?
But bless ye! bless ye! just considher—
Or—drop it! Anyway, I'll be bail
There was conscience plenty in Pazon Gale.
And he knew he should ha' spoke to this beauty
Long afore, lek bein' his duty
As clear as clear: but didn', no!
That's the way—just so! just so!
The delicake—that's the way he spar'd her:
Bless ye! the delicaker the harder!
Isn' it? reg'lar? the harder to spake
To such dirts, the harder to have or to make
With their doin's, the natheral to keep
Urrov their road, lek the way with a sweep,
And his rope, and his brush, and his bag of shoot.
But wrong, I tell ye, and the Pazon knew't.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |